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THE 


EAEL’S DAUGHTEK. 


BY 

THE AUTHOR OF “ AMY HERBERT,” “ GERTRUDE” “ THE CHILD’s 
FIRST HISTORY OF ROME,” ETC. 


EDITED BY 

THE HEV. AV. SEAVELL, B. D. 

FELLOW OF EXETER COLLEGE, OXFORD. 


Life, .... is energy of Love, 

Divine or human ; exercised in pain. 

In strife, and tribulation ; and ordained. 

If so approved and sanctified, to pass, 

Thr( igh shades and silent rest, to endless joy. 

The Excursion, 


NEW YORK: 

D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 200 BROADWAY. 

PHILADELPHIA: 

GEO. S. APPLETON, 164 CHESNUT-STREET. 

M DCCC L. 


I 





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APR 18 192^ 

Army and . .. | 

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THE EAKL’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER I. 

There was an unusual stir in the old cathedral town of 

. It was neither a market-day, nor the anniversary of 

a public f6te ; neither the season of the annual visitation, nor 
of any public meeting ; yet the narrow footways were thronged, 
' and knots of idlers stood inconveniently at the corners of the 
streets, making their remarks upon the few carriages which 
enlivened the generally dull town, or noticing with interest the 
occasional approach of the rows of neatly dressed school 
children, who, with orderly steps and serious looks, were bend- 
ing their way to the open square in which stood the great 
entrance to the cathedral. Gravity, indeed, was the pervading 
deportment of all the assembling crowd ; but a deeper, more 
reverent, and anxious feeling might be traced upon the features 
of some, who, fully aware of the difficulties of a Christian life, 
were about to witness the renewal of those vows by which the 
ignorant and untried, the weak and the erring, in the midst of 
a sinful world, and about to enter upon the scene of its tempta- 
tions, pledge themselves in the sight of an All Holy God, to be 
His in spirit, in truth, and for ever. It was the day appointed 

for the Confirmation of all within the diocese of who had 

attained the age required by the Bishop, and on few occasions 
had a more careful preparation been made for the due obser- 
vance of this important rite. The time had gone by when the 
verbal repetition of the Church Catechism was alone deemed 
necessary for the candidates. A more zealous spirit had arisen, 
and many, who had themselves been allowed to renew their 
baptismal vows, without thought or prayer, now, warned by 
past experience, endeavoured most earnestly to urge upon 
others the importance of the period which they had reached, 
and the real meaning of the words, which from childhood had 
been familiar to their lips ! 

The Confirmation of that day was felt to be a most solemn 
act of self-dedication ; and as the knights of old, when prepar- 


4 


THE earl’s daughter. 


ing to assume the insignia and encounter the perils of their 
order, were accustomed to fast, and watch and pray, that they 
might be enabled to struggle and conquer in the unknown 
dangers before them ; so the young aspirants to the full privi- 
leges of Christianity were taught to humble themselves by 
repentance, and prepare their hearts by prayer, that in the hour 
of temptation they might not be forgetful of their high calling, 
and fall short of tWr eternal reward. The spectacle which the 
cathedral church of St. Mark exhibited when the choir was 
filled, before the service of the church began, was one of no 
common interest. The broad light of the sun, as its rays 
streamed through the stained windows, fell upon fair young 
faces chastened by holy thoughts, and boyish features subdued 
into stillness by the pressure of a strange and hitherto unfelt 
awe. There were countenances which told of fear and wonder, 
and some, it might be, of indifference ; there were eyes bent 
upon the page in which the vow to be renewed was recorded ; 
and lips m'oving in silent prayer that strength might be granted 
for its fulfilment ; whilst, at times, over those youthful faces 
there passed the shadow of a dark cloud, the cloud of the 
memory of sin ; the vision of cherished offences, of indulged 
tempei*s, — vanity and pride, selfishness and irreverence, — the 
bitter fruits of an evil nature, now a second time to be publicly 
renounced for ever. Was it to be marvelled at, if in some then 
present the weakness of humanity for a moment shrank from 
the warfare imposed upon it, and would fain have returned to 
the bondage of Egypt, the indulgence of earthly inclination, 
rather than brave the battle with those stern enemies — the 
world, the flesh, and the devil — which throng the borders of 
the land of promise ? 

But the wish, if it arose, was founded on error. The candi- 
dates for Confirmation were no longer free to choose. Once 
baptized, once admitted into the fellowship of the Catholic • 
Church, and there could be no drawing back. The members 
of Christ, the children of God, the inheritors of the kingdom 
of heaven, could never again “ be as the heathen.” They 
might despise their privileges, and break their vows ; but the 
privileges had still been granted, and they must be answerable 
for them ; the vows were still upon their heads, and so would 
also be the punishment for neglect. For them it could never 
be a question, whether they would accept Christianity : but 
whether, having accepted, they would renouiice it ; and even 
1 the most indiflerent amongst the professed followers of Christ 


THE earl’s daughter. 


5 


would surely have trembled to risk the woe which must inevi- 
tably follow an open, deliberate apostacy. 

But although no second promise could in reality increase th<r 
binding responsibility of the first, yet the public ratification ol 
a covenant with God must ever be regarded with awe. Tht 
baptismal vow was now for the first time fully impressed upoi 
the consciences of many by whom it had scarcely before been 
remembered, and they ’trembled as the moment approached 
when they were to seal it with the consent of their own lips. 

The peaceful soothing words of the daily service were said, 
and when they were ended there stood before the altar of God, 
the high-born inheritors of honour and wealth, and the gentle 
children nursed in affluence and retirement, and the humble 
offspring of poverty, united by one creed, one hope, one danger, 
and summoned to join in one common act of self-dedication. 

Together they listened to the earnest supplication which was 
to bring down upon them from on high the “ sevenfold gifts of 
grace ; ” and then side by side they knelt, and each in turn 
bowed beneath a hand of blessing — ^the blessing of their 
spiritual Father in Christ. 

Once more they were seated as before, to receive from the 
Bishop’s mouth the words of advice, and warning, and consola- 
tion, which were to guide them amidst the temptations of life ; 
and when the final benediction was given, and the full tones of 
the organ pealed through the long aisles, they parted even as 
they had met, for the greater part, unknowing and unre- 
garding, to many a distant home, never to meet together 
again in one place till they should stand before the judgment- 
seat of God, to answer for the fulfilment of the vow which had 
that hour been registered in heaven. 


CHAPTER II. 

It was the evening of the same day, a day of unwonted 
brilliancy and warmth. The sounds of busy life were fading 
upon the listening ear, the cattle were returning from the 
pastures, the birds were seeking their nests, the tired workman 
was slowly wending his way towards his home, and the deep 
tones of the cathedral clock as it struck the hour of eight fell 
with a warning voice upon the few who were still engrossed in 
their round of daily occupation. 


6 


THE earl’s daughter. 


The peacefulness of such an hour was felt even amidst the 
bustle of a crowded town, and the jar of folly and vice ; but in 
the quiet garden of the old grey manor-house of St. Ebbe’s 
there was nothing to disturb the hallowing efiect of its influence. 
The low ivy-covered walls which enclosed it seemed built for the 
very purpose of excluding all thoughts of the busy world ; the 
long green walks invited to regular exercise and meditation ; 
the neatly-trimmed borders, gay with flowers, spoke of careful- 
ness and simplicity, and appreciation of the loveliness of nature; 
and the quaint sun-dial, raised upon a circle of rough stone 
steps in the centre, gave a silent call to the unthinking to note 
the flight of time, whilst it bade them, in the words of Holy 
Writ, which were graven upon its pedestal, “ watch and pray, 
that they might not enter into temptation.” The building 
itself, with its weather-stained walls, and mullioned windows 
and deep porch, accorded perfectly with the quaint style of the 
garden. It was not large, and boasted few architectural orna- 
ments ; but it was the existing symbol of bygone years, and 
insensibly carried back the mind to times far removed from the 
present, when if mankind were not wiser and better they were 
at least less restless, and when the lords of the manor of SL 
Ebbe’s were willing to “ dwell amongst their own people,” and 
knew no higher interest in life than that of providing for their 
welfare. So it was not now ; the house, and the garden, and 
the lands, which once were deemed indissolubly attached, had 
been divided into separate lots : the manor-house had become a 
farm-house, the farm-house had been neglected; and, ruined 
and dilapidated, would have fallen into almost hopeless decay, 
but for a succession of fortunate events which placed it in the 
hands of those who were 'bulling to expend some money and 
much taste in restoring it, though not to its original beauty, yet 
to a condition in which it might oe inhabited with comfort. 

The inmates of the manor-house, in its present state, were 
widely different from its early occupants ; and if the first Sir 
Ralph de . Breton ville, whom tradition asserted to have been the 
founder of the family, could have looked upon the youthful 
figures standing upon the dial-steps, and watching the gradual 
fading of the gorgeous sunset, he might have deemed them 
beings of another race, so little could they have resembled the 
uncouth train of revellers, huntsmen, and serving men, with 
whom his own halls must have been filled. 

They were two girls, who appeared to have scarcely passed 
the age of sixteen — unlike in dress, height, and figure; but 


1 


THE earl’s daughter. 

showing, by an unrestrained ease of manner, that the tie 
between them, if not of blood, was one of familiar intimacy. 

The taller — and, seemingly, the elder — of the two was finely 
formed, and dignified, almost commanding in manner. Her 
dark hair was braided, with studied neatness, . across a high 
forehead, and one long ringlet fell on either side upon the well- 
turned neck, over which a shawl had been hastily thrown to 
protect her - from the evening air. Her complexion was clear, 
and brilliant with the hues of youth and health ; and none, 
probably, could have turned an indiflerent gaze upon the perfect 
contour of her features ; — the deep set hazel eye — the Grecian 
nose — the full expressive mouth, which bespoke intellect and 
energy, and natural elevation of character ; — and as she stood, 
with one hand pointed to the glowing sky, and the other rest- 
ing upon the dial-plate, whilst the dazzling hues of sunset fell 
upon her graceful figure, she might have been fitly deemed the 
representative of the Sibyl, or the Pythoness, exulting in the 
first enthusiasm of inspiration. 

Her companion it will be less easy to pourtray ; for Lady 
Blanche Evelyn was not regailarly beautiful. She was slight in 
figure, and rather below the usual height; — her complexion 
was naturally pale, though, at that moment, tinged by the 
faint crimson-flush of interest and agitation ; — her eyes, dark 
and exquisitely soft, were not striking in their brilliancy, like 
those of her friend. There was less of a marked outline in the 
contour of her face, even of the long-chiselled nose and peculiarly 
sweet mouth ; and the clustering ringlets of glossy chestnut 
hair, which shaded her features, gave an air of greater youth- 
fulness to her general appearance. The forehead — high, open, 
and intellectual — bore, indeed, some resemblance to her com- 
panion’s, but the expression of the whole countenance was 
but little aflfected by it. 

It was not intellect which could have been uppermost in the 
thoughts of any person, looking, for the first time, upon Lady 
Blanche Evelyn. The sparkle in her eye, the smile upon her 
lips, the light eager animation of manner, chastened by refine- 
ment and simplicity, were the tokens of a heart delighting in 
the first freshness of life ; remembering the past without regret, 
and painting visions of the future with innocent enjoyment; and 
if, for a moment, a transient shade of thought passed over the 
sunshine of her fair young features, it was the thought, not of 
foreboding or discontent, but of a mind to which the mysterious 


8 


THE earl’s daughter. 


realities of the unseen world were presenting themselves with 
'all their overwhelming power. 

Graceful, gentle, ^and childlike as she was, she might have 
been deemed by many unfitted to cope with the trials of the 
world ; but, whether it were from the natural dignity of one 
upon whom the honours of a long line of ancestry were destined 
to -descend, or from a strength of character unknown only 
because untried, — an under current of firmness ran through her 
words and actions ; scarcely indeed perceived, except by minute 
observation, but then displaying itself even in the intonations of 
her musical voice, and the increasing earnestness of her gestures, 
as she pursued her conversation. 

“ To-morrow,” she said, as she threw her arm aflfectionately 
around her companion, “ to-morrow, Eleanor, by this time I may 
have seen him, and you may have seen him too ; our plans will 
not seem dreamy then.” 

“ They will to me,” was the reply ; “ till I can see how they 
may be carried out : and I dread to-morrow, lest it should 
make me forget to-day.” 

“ Sometimes it seems impossible to forget,” replied Blanche, 
as she gazed intently upon the golden sky. “ Now, it seems 
so ; and then again, — oh ! Eleanor, I feel it will be very hard : 
-^when my thoughts are given to earthly things my heart will 
follow : and yet at this time how can I help it ?” 

“ Then, it cannot be wrong,” said Eleanor, soothingly. 

“ If I could but think so ! But, after this morning, no one 
who had really fixed principles would be as changeable as I am.” 

“No one thinks you - changeable, except yourself,” answered 
Eleanor. 

“ I know myself better than others know me, then,” said 
Blanche. “ Even, after all I have promised — all those prayers, 
and the charge, and all my resolutions, I cannot keep my mind 
fixed as I ought. I have such dreams of home, and of Papa ; 
and when I shut myself up this afternoon, and tried to do what 
Mrs. Howard advised, I was wandering to things gone by, — all 
that has happened since we have been here. I wonder whether 
others have the same difficulties.” 

Eleanor thought for a few moments, and then said, rather ab- 
ruptly, “ Did you notice that sickly girl who sat to the right of 
us, at the head of the charity-school ?” 

“ Yes,” exclaimed Blanche ; “ her eyes never seemed to move 
except when the chanting l3egan, and then she looked up 


THE earl’s daughter. 


9 


amongst the arches of the cathedral with such intense awe. I 
was vexed with myself for thinking about her, and yet it did 
me good.” 

“ She was blind,” continued Eleanor ; “ one of her compa- 
nions led her up to the altar as we left it. Mrs. Howard says 
she comes from Rutherford ; and I mean to ask papa if he 
knows her.” 

“ I think I could bear to be blind,” observed Blanche, “ if I 
could only feel, as I am sure she did. But the world is so 
beautiful, and it is so pleasant to live and to be loved !” 

Yes,” said Eleanor ; “ for you, especially, who have every- 
thing else that the world can give.” 

“Why should I have so much ?” exclaimed Blanche. ,“It 
is very strange; and when I looked at that poor girl it fright- 
ened me. And yet, Eleanor,” she continued, and a shade 
almost of sadness, passed over her face, “ it may all be marred. 
I shall be like a stranger in my home, and papa may have 
lost his English tastes, and be vexed that I am not what he 
pictured.” 

“ You are fanciful,” replied Eleanor, with an air of authority ; 
“you should remember what Mrs. Howard says about not 
creating evils.” 

“ But he will be my all,” said Blanche, humbly ; “ K his love 
fails me, what shall I have to look to ?” Eleanor’s countenance 
expressed surprise, and Blanche instantly corrected herself ; “ on 
earth, I mean,” she said ; “ but that is an instance of what I 
mentioned just now about forgetting. I know that I ought to 
be calm and trusting, thinking of to-day instead of to-morrow. 
Do you remember the Bishop’s saying it was part of our 
duty ?” 

“ Yes,” replied Eleanor ; “ I was looking at the blind girl at 
the instant, and her face brightened when she heard it, as 
little Clara’s does when she first gains a new idea.” 

Blanche was silent for several minutes. “ I must not think,” 
she exclaimed, at length ; “ the time is coming so near. When 
the sun ffoes down again, I may be watching it from the terrace 
at Rutherford.” 

“ And I from the rectory,” said Eleanor. “We shall be 
separated then.” 

The words sounded reproachfully ; and Blanche eagerly ex- 
claimed, “ Only for a few hours ; our homes will be almost the 
same. You do not think, Eleanor, that I could be happy if it 
were not so.” 


1 * 


10 


N 


THE earl’s daughter. 

“ Not now. But, Blanche, the path of your life will lead you 
away from me into the world, and amongst gay friends ; you 
will have many other ties.” 

“ But % one,” said Blanche ; “ where can I find that ? The 
blessing which was given us to-day together will never be re- 
peated again ; — ours can never be a common love.” 

Eleanor grew very thoughtful. “ Promise to love me always,” 
she said. “ Doubt comes over me sadly at times.” 

Blanche did not promise ; but she looked at Eleanor with 
wonder, as if not comprehending the meaning of her words, and 
before she could reply, some one was heard to repeat her name ; 
and a little girl, about ten years of age, ran up to them, ex- 
claiming, “ You must come directly, — this moment ; you must 
not wait a minute ; Mrs. Howard wants you in her room. 
Pray, Eleanor, don’t keep her.” 

“ Is it for me ? Did Mrs. Howard send for me, Clara ?” and 
the colour faded from Blanche’s cheek. 

“ Yes, Mrs. Howard ; and” — the child stopped, put her finger 
upon her lip, and smiled archly. 

“ Who ? W’’hat ? Who is here ?” asked Eleanor. 

“ Never mind ; don’t ask questions. Mrs. Howard told me 
I was to make haste.” 

Lady Blanche said nothing ; she leant against the sun-dial, 
and every limb trembled. 

“ You are ill, dearest,” said Eleanor, affectionately ; “and 
this suspense is dreadful for you. Clara, you must tell us — Is 
Lord Rutherford arrived ?” 

Clara wjis delighted at her own power, and turning away, ex- 
claimed, “ For once Eleanor Wentworth cannot have her will.” 

“ But Blanche Evelyn can and Blanche drew the little girl 
t awards her, and said in a faint voice, “ If you love me, 
Clara” — 

The appeal was successful. Clara’s arm was put within 
hers ; and, looking up in Blanche’s face to watch the efiect of 
her information, she whispered, “ I have not seen him ; but 
Mary and Agnes have.” 

Blanche scarcely waited to hear the last word, before she had 
flown towards the house ; but as she reached the porch she 
stopped — ^her courage had failed. 

Eleanor was at her side immediately. “ He must love you — 
dote upon you, Blanche ; and his letters — you do him injustice 
by being afraid.” 

Blanche put her hand before her eyes ; and holier thoughts 


THE earl’s daughter. 


11 


came to her aid. One Father, she had, who knew the weak- 
ness of His child, and could strengthen her as well against the 
infirmity of nature, as against the temptations of sin. She 
placed her icy fingers within Eleanor’s, and clasped them with 
the energy of nervous resolution ; and then, with a firm step, 
turned away to seek for the first time, since she had been con- 
scious of existence, the presence of her father. 


CHAPTER HI. 

The Earl of Rutherford was a man, the ruling principle of 
whose character was generally supposed to be easily discovered 
fi'om his expressive countenance : conscious nobility, a love of 
command, an impetuous temper, and a powerful intellect, were 
plainly inscribed upon it. He was born to honour, accustomed 
from infancy to rule, and the world had decided that pride was 
the governing motive of his actions. So at least it was said, 
when, fifteen years before, he had suddenly left his ancestral 
home, upon the death of a wife, whom, if he had not loved, he 
had at least treated with the outward marks of respect ; and 
confiding his infant daughter to the care of a lady, the personal 
friend of the countess, left England with the avowed determina 
tion of remaining abroad for some years. The step, strange 
though it appeared, was declared not incompatible with his charac- 
ter. ‘ The grief preying upon his heart was said to be less the 
death of his wife, than the failure of a male heir ; and the Lady 
Blanche Evelyn, although born to inherit both the title and its 
annexed estates, was considered to be an object of compassion 
rather than of love to her haughty father, from the feeling that 
it was impossible for a woman fitly to support the dignity of the 
family, and the dread lest the event of her marriage with some 
yet more distinguished individual should sink his own noble 
house into comparative insignificance. All this the world said. 
The Earl of Rutherford was pitied, but censured ; his sorrow it 
was imagined would be transitory, and his journey was con- 
sidered merely the impulse of a hasty moment. That he would 
return again, it might be with a foreign bride, or at least to seek 
another in England, was considered a matter of certainty ; and 
yet, year after year went by, and the Castle of Rutherford was. 
still left unoccupied. Political engagements it was known were 
in a great measure the cause of the earl’s absence, but they 


12 


THE earl’s DAUGHfER. 


would not account for an exile of such length ; and the rumours 
which were at first circulated regarding a second marriage at 
length ceased. Tidings of him were heard — sometimes at 
Rome, sometimes at Vienna, once at Constantinople ; but all 
gave the same impression. If Lord Rutherford had been con- 
sidered proud at home, he was thought to be yet more so in the 
careless ease of continental society. The noblest and fairest 
ornaments of European courts passed before him, but all were 
alike unnoticed ; and, at the expiration of fifteen yeai-s, he was 
returning to his native land, with the same impenetrable man- 
ner, the same cold reserve of tone, for which he had been 
remarkable on leaving it. And in the mean time his child 
grew up in retirement, under the care of a lady every way cal- 
culated for such a charge. Mrs. Howard was a widow, who, at 
the age of thirty, found herself suddenly reduced from a situa- 
tion of affluence and happiness, as the wife of a beneficed clergy- 
man, to one of almost hopeless poverty. The death of her 
husband, which had been so sudden as to prevent him from 
making any satisfactory arrangement* of his property, joined 
with other circumstances perfectly unforeseen, had combined to 
produce this great misfortune ; and, but for the long-tried 
friendship of the Countess of Rutherford, Mrs. Howard’s pros- 
pects would indeed have been dark. Through her exertions, 
however, the manor-house of St. Ebbe’s was purchased, and fitted 
up so as to accommodate Mrs. Howard and the few pupils whose 
education she was able to undertake ; and when, in the pros- 
pect of approaching death, the countess gazed in sadness upon 
^er child, her chief earthly consolation was derived from the 
hope that the earl would consent to place the infant Lady 
Blanche under the care of the only person in whose affection 
and principle she was able implicitly to confide. Lord Ruther- 
ford was not present to receive the dying injunction of his 
wife, but her wishes were received with an attention nearly 
amounting to superstition. Lady Blanche was removed to St. 
Ebbe’s, and the sole charge of her education trusted to Mrs. 
Howard, with but one stipulation — that she should have np 
companion. For a few years this agreement was easily kept. 
During the child’s infancy she was perfectly satisfied with Mrs. 
Howard as her nurse, instructress, and playfellow ; but new 
wants were discovered with increasing years, and Mrs. Howard, 
believing that such a solitary education might operate unfavour- 
ably upon her character, at length prevailed upon the earl to 
allow her to receive into her family Eleanor Wentworth, the 


THE earl’s daughter. 


13 


daughter of the rector of Rutherford. Blanche was at this 
time about seven yeai-s of age, and fully able to appreciate the 
charms of companionship. Eleanor was .clever, generous, and 
affectionate ; and the progress made by both the children fi’om 
the period of their being placed together convinced Mrs. How- 
ard that •she had judged wisely in the advice which she had 
given : and when, in the course of events, the care of three 
little orphan nieces devolved upon her, she had no difficulty in 
persuading Lord Rutherford to allow them also to share her 
attention at St. Ebbe’s. 

The charm of society was felt chiefly by Blanche. Eleanor 
returned to her home at stated times, and mixed with other 
friends, and enjoyed the novelty of other scenes ; but to Blanche 
the occupations of the manor-house, the interest of the village 
of St. Ebbe’s, and the dull liveliness of the old cathedral town 
were the only excitements of life. Even the Castle of Ruther- 
ford, her destined home, was but like a beautiful dream, associ- 
ated with visions of the mother who had been described as the 
most lovely and perfect of earthly beings, and the father, whose 
supposed virtues and talents formed the great romance of her 
childhood. 

And the Earl of Rutherford, if judged by his letters, was 
indeed formed to excite admiration, if not respect. They were 
the letters of a refined, highly cultivated, affectionate mind ; — 
keenly alive to the charms of grace and luxury, yet mourning 
over the unreality of all earthly enjoyments ; joining in the 
pursuits of the world, yet sighing for the sympathy of the few 
who were alone deemed worthy of friendship ; and seeing too 
deeply into life to be satisfied with aught that earth could give. 
One thing alone seemed to give him real pleasure, the hope of 
returning to England and devoting himself to his child ; — and 
yet year after year went by, and still he lingered in a foreign 
land. Blanche learned by degrees to attach but little meaning 
to his expressions of dissatisfaction with continental habits, and 
of desire to rerfsit his own country. He might be — no doubt 
he was — sincere ; but the circumstances or the feelings which 
detained him abroad appeared as binding as ever ; and a shade 
of discontent was just beginning to dim the brightness of her 
hitherto happy life, when the intelligence that her father was. 
actually on his way to England, and would probably arrive in 
the course of a few weeks, brought back all her early enthusiasm 
and delight. Yet the satisfaction, after the first moment, was 
by no means unalloyed. Her own departure from St. Ebbe’s 


14 


THE earl’s daughter. 


would be the inevitable consequence of the earl’s return, and 
with this was involved separation from the friend who had sup- 
plied a mother’s place, and claimed all but a mother’s affection ; 
and as Blanche recalled the fondness which had been lavished 
upon her from infancy, she wept in bitterness of heart for the 
ingratitude which could for an instant rejoice in such a prospect. 

As^regarded Eleanor, the case would be very different. She 
was to return to her parents at the same time, and the near 
vicinity of the rectory and the castle formed, at least in the 
simple mind of Lady Blanche, a reason for believing that the 
change of life would be merely nominal ; that they would share 
the same interests, and partake of the same pleasures, and be 
to each other, what they had hitherto called themselves, — sis- 
ters in affection, if not in relationship. 

She could not contemplate the possibility of change, — and 
the fears which Eleanor sometimes expressed, were to her 
merely the fancies of an excitable, over-anxious mind. 

But, as the season approached for the earl’s arrival, the strug- 
gle in the mind of Blanche between hope and regret — the 
future and the past — became mixed with other thoughts, which 
served to calm her spirits by diverting her feelings into a differ- 
ent channel. The period of her Confirmation had been una- 
voidably fixed for the time when Lord Rutherford was ex- 
pected ; and though Mrs. Howard would at first willingly have 
either hastened or deferred it, so as to give a more favourable 
opportunity for due preparation, she soon saw reason to be 
thankful that events had been so ordered as to leave no possi- 
bility of choice. The gay, gentle, confiding spirit of Lady 
Blanche, open to every impression, and apparently incapable of 
the possibility of concealment, yet retained within it a depth 
of reflection and principle which Mrs. Howard had never pene- 
trated. Unknown to herself, Blanche was timid and reserved. 
She could speak openly upon all ordinary subjects, — confess her 
faults, and laugh at her mistakes, and lament her ignorance, 
till even a very keen observer of human nature — and such Mrs. 
Howard was — might imagine that she had told all that was in 
her mind. But there were occasions when the’^ deepening colour 
of her cheek, or the hesitation of her voice, gave indications 
that in the hidden world within there lay feelings far loftier and 
purer than any which she ventured to express. Her words 
were the words of a humble, candid, light-hearted, simple 
child ; but her thoughts — -who may tell the earnestness, and 
reverence, and trustfulness, with which the young heart devotes 


THE earl’s daughter. 


15 


itself to its Maker before the evil influence of the world has 
chilled the warmth of its early affections ? What Lady Blanche 
really was, Mrs. Howard never knew, till in the intimacy of 
serious intercourse which preceded her Confirmation, the an- 
guish of repentance for youthful sins overcame her natural 
reserve ; and hopes, and fears, and doubts, and the bitter con- 
flict of the soul, which all — even the most outwardly innocent 
— must endure, in the work of bringing back the heart to God, 
were confessed without a thought of concealment. From that 
moment the tie between them was one which earth has no 
power to break. 

To Blanche this newly-acquired sympathy was an unspeaka- 
ble blessing ; it soothed her in the moments of self-reproach, 
when the delight of her father’s anticipated return distracted 
her thoughts from the solemn subject of her approaching Con- 
firmation ; and enabled her to view clearly the life which was 
opening before her, and to arrange definite plans for her future 
conduct, instead of doubling and vacillating in the desire of 
doing everything, and the dread of succeeding in nothing. If 
Mrs. Howard had been dear to her before, as her truest and wisest 
friend, her mother’s chosen representative, much more was she 
dear now ; and, even when trembling before the door which 
was to admit her into her father’s presence, a sudden pang of 
sorrow shot through her heart as she caught the tones of Mrs. 
Howard’s voice, and thought how soon she might listen for 
them in vain. Mrs. Howard herself opened the door as Blanche 
placed her hand upon the lock. She did not speak ; but her 
silent kiss told more than the most eloquent words ; and, as 
she walked slowly away, Blanche allowed herself to hesitate no 
longer, and entered the room. The earl was standing by the 
window — his eye fixed upon the travelling-carriage which had 
brought him that evening from London ; but his thoughts wan- 
dering to years, now so long passed away, that they seemed but 
as indistinct, yet painful, visions. He was recalling the day 
when, in the company of his wife, he had paid his first visit to 
St. Ebbe’s ; and the associations awakened by the remembrance 
were so absorbing, that the sound of his daughter’s footsteps 
was unheeded. Blanche remained irresolute — afraid to intrude 
herself upon him, yet faint from the effort to restrain her agita- 
tion. A few moments elapsed, but to her they seemed like 
hours ; and then the carriage drove off, and the earl, heaving a 
deep sigh, turned suddenly around, and became aware that he 
was not alone. 


16 


THE earl’s daughter. 


It was a strange meeting ! He did not move or smile ; but 
the colour forsook bis cheeks, and his lips quivered ; and as 
Blanche drew near, he gazed upon her steadfastly, and sinking 
into a chair, the name of his wife escaped his lips. Blanche 
stood before him motionless. The earl’s head was averted as 
if he dreaded to look again ; but, when at length the simple 
word, “ Papa,” fell upon his ear, he started, passed his hand 
across his forehead like one awakening from a dream, and, 
clasping his child to his heart, he blessed her fervently, and 
poured forth the fulness of his contentment ; and, at that mo- 
ment, the fondest hope of affection which Blanche had ever 
ventured to indulge appeared about to be fully realized. 

“ My visit, to-night, must be but short, my child,” said the 
earl, when the excitement of feeling had in a measure subsided, 
and Blanche ventured to inquire how long he could stay with 
her. “ I have business in the town, and must leave you almost 
immediately; but to-morrow we will start early, and reach 
Rutherford in time for you to see it in its beauty.” 

“ And for the first time,” said Blanche : “ it seemed hard, 
papa, never to have been allowed to go there before ; but I am 
glad of it now. I would much rather see it first with you.” 

The earl smiled. 

“ And with Miss Wentworth ? We are to take her with us, 
I believe.” 

“ Will you really ?” and Blanche’s eye sparkled with delight. 
“We hoped it might be so ; but Dr. Wentworth was afraid 
you might not like it.” 

“ Shall you like it ? — that is the question, Blanche.” 

Lord Rutherford spoke shortly, and Blanche was a little 
awed. 

“ I shall like everything that you like, dear papa,” she said ; 
“ and Eleanor and I have not set our hearts upon it.” 

“ But you would prefer it, my love ; only say so, and it 
shall be.” 

Blanche had penetration enough to see that her father really 
wished her to choose ; and, as she warmly expressed her plea- 
sure at the proposal, the earl’s gentleness of manner returned. 

“ My engagement is pressing,” he said, as he rose to depart, 
whilst Blanche hung upon his arm, “ and a night’s rest will be 
desirable for us both ; but we will meet at eight to-morrow, if, 
as Mrs. Howard assures me, you are quite prepared for such a 
sudden move.” 

The mention of Mrs. Howard brought back Blanche’s sad 
thoughts. 


THE earl’s daughter. 


17 


“ You will let her come and see me sometimes, dear papa, 
won’t you ?” she said, timidly. 

“ Let her come !” replied the earl ; “ rather, ask her if she 
will be kind enough to take the trouble : she may not think as 
little of a long journey as you do.” 

Blanche looked grave ; for she could not bear, even in jest, 
the idea of any obstacle to a continued intercourse with her best 
fi’iend. The earl no sooner perceived it, than he began to assure 
her that if the distance were ten times as great, it should not 
interfere. She need not have a thought upon the subject ; and 
if Blanche had not herself stopped him, he would have insisted 
upon seeing Mrs. Howard again at once, and inducing her to 
name a certain time for a visit to Rutherford. 

Blanche scarcely understood this instantaneous attention to . 
her wishes. Mrs. Howard’s object had been to guard her against 
the peculiar dangers of her position in life, by accustoming her 
to yield her own will even on the most trifling occasions. She 
often saw others preferred before her, and her natural disposi- 
tion led her to obey rather than to command ; and this, added 
to the influence of Eleanor Wentworth’s apparent decision of 
character, made her insensible to her own powers. Perhaps too 
mi^ch so ; Mrs. Howard at least began to fear lest, in fostering 
gentleness and consideration, she had kept her too much in 
ignorance of the influence which her rank and fortune would 
naturally give her ; and lest the sudden consciousness of 
superiority might prove more injurious to her character than if 
she had been accustomed to it from childhood. But it was too 
late to remedy the mistake. Blanche was about to enter upon 
the world, unknowing of its snares, and guarded only by the 
simple piety of a humble spirit, which has learned to distrust 
itself, and to lean only upon God. As she was then, there was 
nothing to fear ; but how long her simplicity would remain 
untainted, her heart uncorrupted by the flattering homage 
which awaited her, was a question which only the most un- 
hesitating faith could have borne to ask. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Mrs. Howard sat in her dressing-room that evening long 
after her usual hour of rest. She was too anxious, her mind was too 
preoccupied, to hope for sleep. She could only think over the past, 


18 


THE earl’s daughter. 


and pray for the future ; whilst she dwelt upon the dispositions 
of her two young charges, and the trials to which they might 
be exposed in their journey through life. 

It would have been difficult to tell which excited the greater 
interest ; perhaps the one for whom she feared the most seemed 
then the nearer to her heart ; yet Eleanor Wentworth’s character 
was, m itself, much more open to temptation than that of Lady 
Blanche. Nothing but the certainty that, at the rectory of 
Rutherford, Eleanor would be as carefully guarded from evil as 
at the manor-house of St. Ebbe’s, would have relieved the load 
of apprehension which pressed upon Mrs. Howard’s spirits as 
she thought upon the fickleness of purpose, the pride and 
jealousy, the hasty, though generous temper, which were con- 
tinually marring the influence of her talents and high principles. 

But Eleanor was not, like Blanche, to return to a home 
where she would be the cherished idol of every heart. She 
would be loved, indeed, deeply and tenderly ; but it would be 
with a Christian love, which would watch over her faults, and 
tell her truth without reserve. She would have quiet occupa- 
tions ; duties to her parents and her sister ; duties in her father’s 
parish ; amusements in her garden and her books ; and society 
in the castle and its neighbourhood. 

Mrs. Howard almost smiled at the feeling of dread which she 
had allowed to disturb her, as she owned to herself that 
Eleanor’s situation in life seemed pecuharly free from tempta- 
* tion ; whilst, a^ain, she sadly reverted to Blanche — noble, 
beautiful, and rich, but deprived of a mother’s care, and with 
no one to be her daily guide and counsellor, but the father, 
who there was reason to fear might be little fitted for such an 
office. 

The position was undoubtedly one of peril, and self-accusa- 
tions mingled with Mrs. Howard’s forebodings. Memory w^ent 
back to the hour when, as an innocent, unconscious infant, the 
child of her early friend had been committed to her care ; when, 
after the lapse of but a few weeks from the death of the 
Countess of Rutherford, the earl had placed his daughter in her 
arms, and bade her love and guard her for her mother’s sake. 
To love her was indeed easy ; but to guard, to teach, to educate 
her — how had the task been performed ? It was a sad array 
of errors and neglects, which conscience brought before the 
mind of one whom the world rightly judged to have discharged 
her duty faithfully and unshrinkingly ; so much seemed to 
have been left unsaid, undone ; so much higher an example 


THE earl’s daughter. 


19 


might have been set ; so many warnings and instructions given. 
As the painful reflections crowded upon her mind, a gentle tap 
at the door was heard, and Blanche entered the room. She was 
looking pale and ill, and her eyes were dimmed with tears ; and 
Mrs. Howard, startled at her sudden appearance, inquired, in 
alarm, the cause. Blanche tried to smile, whilst she assured 
her that it was merely a whim — a freak ; — she was restless, and 
could not sleep, and the light was shining underneath the 
dressing-room door ; and — but her voice failed her, and hiding 
her face upon Mrs. Howard’s neck, she said, “ To-morrow ! — I 
cannot leave you.” 

“ It will not be leaving me, my dearest child,” replied Mrs. 
Howard. “We shall still be one in affection, and your father 
promises that we shall meet frequently.” 

“ But that will not make things as they have been,” replied 
Blanche. “ I shall only have you for a short time, and I shall 
want you every hour in the day.” 

“ Perhaps that is the very reason why it is good for me not 
to be with you,” said Mrs. Howard ; “ we must not depend too 
much upon our fellow-creatures, however we may love them.” 

“ If I were not so ignorant,” said Blanche, “ and if I knew 
what sort of life I was going to lead, it would not seem so bad ; 
but seeing papa has upset all my ideas. I don’t mean that he 
is difierent exactly in appearance from what I thought, but his 
manner is. He put me forward when I talked to him, and 
seemed to make me settle things ; and I would much rather he 
would not.” 

“ You will be used to that in time, my love,” replied Mrs. 
Howard, smiling ; “ and you must recollect you are no longer 
a child.” 

“ No, indeed,” exclaimed Blanche, “ after to-day I could not 
be ; but that, again, makes me unhappy. How shall I know 
what is right or wrong in trifles ? I cannot ask papa ; — at least 
I think I cannot ; — and I may decide badly, and do what I 
ought not; and perhaps all my resolutions may fail. You 
know it is so sometimes, when people have felt a great deal 
more than I have.” 

“ You can apply to me always,” replied Mrs. Howard, “ in 
cases in which you really have no one else to consult ; but it is 
not advice which can keep you right.” 

“ No,” said Blanche ; “ but if — if I should grow careless, and 
not pray properly — ” 

“ Fear for yourself, my love,” replied Mra. Howard, “ and 


20 


THE earl’s daughter. 


then no other friend need fear for you ; but if you can attend 
carefully to the few rules I gave you the other day, I think you 
will find your duties less difficult than you imagine.” 

“ I always now have some time to myself in the middle 
of the day,” said Blanche ; “ but here I can do as I choose.” 

“ And you will do as you choose at home, my dear,” replied 
Mrs. Howard. “ I have no doubt of it. The best thing, 
however, to say to yourself, is : not that you will, if you can, but 
that you must ; — that everything must, to a certain degree, 
give way to it; that if you cannot be alone at one hour, you 
will be at another. We require not Idng prayers but frequent 
ones, to keep up our watchfulness.” 

“ And then self-examination,” said Blanche ; “ it is so 
difficult.” 

“ Yes, most difficult ; and the only way to make it easy is to 
practise it frequently ; to carry it on from one part of the day 
to another, at the times we fix for our private devotions.” 

“ The difficulty to me,” said Blanche, “ is, that all this makes 
one think so constantly of oneself !” 

“ So it may, at first; but the mind must be educated like 
the body. How is it for instance, that you are able to walk 
without stumbling? If you are in a dangerous road, you 
observe where you are going ; but, generally speaking, you are 
kept in safety, not by thinking of yourself, but of the objects 
around you.” 

“ That is what I want to do with my mind,” said Blanche. 

“ And it will come by-and-by, my love ; but you must be 
contented to walk carefully in the dangerous road first ; and, 
after a time, you will find yourself instinctively shrinking from 
evil and able to pursue the right path — not so much by 
watching yourself as by keeping your heart fixed upon God.” 

“ It will be very long before that time comes,” said Blanche. 

“ Yes, because it is the perfection of a Christian life ; but we 
must be patient. In your case, I confess it is likely to be 
particularly difficult, because you will have so many tempta- 
tions.” 

“ Not more than others, I suppose,” said Blanche ; “ and . 
yet it seems that I shall never be as good as some whom I have 
read of.” 

“ But I am afraid you will have many more temptations 
than people in general,” continued Mrs. Howard ; “ and I 
should be happier if I felt that you understood this. God has 
given you rank and wealth, and no one in your home to share 


THE earl’s daughter. 


21 


the attention which will be paid you ; and your papa is very 
likely to be over-indulgent and blind to your faults.” 

Blanche leant her head upon the mantelpiece, and in a low 
voice said, “ You will pray for me.” 

“ Pray for you daily and hourly,” replied Mrs. Howard, 
earnestly. “ God only knows how precious you are to me. 
Perhaps I am over-anxious ; but luxury and flattery are very 
insidious.” 

“I need not indulge myself in luxuries, even if I possess 
them,” said Blanche. 

“ No ; though I am afraid the temptation will be greater 
than you are aware of. If your mind is corrupted, dearest 
Blanche, the commencement will almost inevitably be self- 
indulgence in trifles.” 

“ I don’t think I quite know what you would call trifles,” 
said Blanche. 

“ Such as a little indolence in rising,” replied Mrs. Howard ; 
“ a little waste of time in light reading ; a slight carelessness 
in conversation, saying things which are not strictly right for 
the sake of amusement ; or spending money thoughtlessly ; or 
even consulting your own ease by making yourself too comfort- 
able, and so rendering yourself indisposed to exertion for other 
people. All these things are considered allowable by the 
world : you may do them, and no one will notice them ; and 
your conscience may, perhaps, scarcely reproach you for them ; 
but they are the beginnings of evil — the first steps towards 
that love of self-gratification which is the peculiar snare of the 
rich.” 

I like ease and comfort now,” said Blanche. 

“ I think you do, my love,” replied Mrs. Howard ; and I am 
not saying that the liking them is wrong, but dangerous ; and 
against the danger I know only one safeguard, as far as our 
own endeavours are concerned. There are times, you know, 
when we are bound to deny ourselves the use even of lawful 
pleasures ; — one day at least in every week we should do so. 
If we check our inclinations then, we may hope they mil not 
gain the mastery over us at other times.” 

“ I shall not know what to do when I am at home,” said 
Blanche. 

“ And I cannot tell you exactly,” replied Mrs. Howard ; 
“ because, of course, you must be governed in a great degree by 
the habits of your father’s house. Only when we have deter- 
mined to do something, half our diflSculty is over. A sincere 


22 


THE earl’s daughter. 


will must soon find out the way, without being singular or 
acting in any way to attract notice.” 

“ But I wish so much — so very, very much — that I could 
have some rules,” said Blanche. 

Mrs. Howard half-smiled as she kissed her, and said, — “ And 
I wish so very much that I could give them, because I know it 
would make you happier ; but I can only repeat in a general 
way what I have said to you before ; little details must be left to 
yourself: it is impossible to shake off the burden of responsibility, 
• Blanche, though I know you would willingly do it if you could.” 

“ But if I make my rules and keep to them,” said Blanche, 
“ still I may attend to them only as a matter of form, and then 
they will be of no use.” 

Mrs. Howard was silent for a few moments ; the most 
earnest-minded often feel bitterly the contrast between the 
advice which they give to others, and the practice which they 
are conscious of in themselves. 

“ It is very hard,” she said, at length, “ to feel, even in a 
remote degree, as we ought ; but, dearest Blanche, if you follow 
the plan you have had marked out for these days ; — begin 
them, for instance, earlier than usual, if possible, and give up 
your first thoughts to self-examination and meditation upon 
those chapters in the Gospels which describe our Lord’s suffer- 
ings ; using special solemn confessions, and also arranging your 
prayers for the rest of the day, with a particular view to these 
subjects of meditation ; — I think you will scarcely fail to hav9 
some deeper gratitude — some more sincere penitence ; you will 
at least feel that the day is not hke other days.” 

“ I will try,” said Blanche ; but she sighed as if distrusting herself. 

“ And you must hope, too,” continued Mrs. Howard ; “ hope 
is a great instrument of good with us all. The work of a 
Christian is the work of a whole life, and we must not despair 
because we are not perfect at once ; especially when we have 
such aid promised and given. In a very short time, my love, you 
^ will, I trust, be fully admitted into the communion of the Church.” 

Blanche looked distressed, and for a few moments did not 
attempt to speak : at last she said, “ I thought you would have 
been with me.” 

“ And I thought so too, and hoped more earnestly than I 
can say ; but it has been otherwise ordered, and it may — it 
must be better for us both. Yet we cannot really be separated ; 
my prayers and my heart will follow you, and we shall surely 
be united in one spirit as members of the body of Christ — more 
closely even than at this moment.” 


THE earl’s daughter. 


23 


Again there was a pause ; the struggle of over-excited feel- 
ings overcame Blanche’s efforts to restrain them, and bursting 
into tears, she exclaimed, “ I am not worthy.” 

“No,” replied Mrs. Howard, and she placed her hand fondly 
on Blanche’s head, “ you are not worthy ; no one can be, not 
even an angel from heaven. But if the blessing is greater than 
words can tell, so also is the love. Blanche, it is a Father’s 
voice which calls you ; perhaps now, for the first time, you can 
understand what a father’s affection must mean.” The allusion 
had the effect which Mrs. Howard desired. 

Blanche raised her head, and a smile gleamed through her 
tears as she said, “I will try to think of it, and not be afraid.” 

“ And you will be assisted and accepted, dearest ; you must 
not doubt it. There is much that I could say to you even now 
upon the subject, though we have so often talked of it before ; 
but I do not think you will allow anything to interfere with 
such a duty. I do not think you will ever make false excuses, 
or turn away with coldness, whatever examples may be set you. 
In time,” and Mrs. Howard’s voice involuntarily became more 
subdued in its earnestness, “ you will cease to look upon it as a 
duty — it will be your all in religion.” 

“ Papa will be with me to help nae, and teach me,” said 
Blanche ; “ that is one great comfort.” 

Mrs. Howard sighed, and made no direct answer ; but rising 
from her seat, unlocked a cabinet, and taking from it a locket 
attached to a hair chain, she hung it round Blanche’s neck, 
saying, “ Will you wear it, not only in remembrance of me, but 
of the day on which it was given you ? The date has been 
engraved on it, that when you look at it you maybe reminded 
of the vow by which you have bound yourself. — And now, dear 
child, we must part.” 

Mrs. Howard’s usually calm voice became low and tremulous. 
Blanche held the locket in her hand, and gazed on it long and 
tearfully ; and then, placing it within the folds of her dress, she 
once more received Mrs. Howard’s fervent blessing, and glided 
silently from the room. 


CHAPTER V. 

The sun was still high in the horizon, when on the following 
day a travelling carriage was seen standing at the bottom of the 


24 


,THE earl’s daughter. 

steep ascent on the summit of which was built the old baronial 
castle of Rutherford. There was apparently some discussion as 
to its movements, for a servant was engaged in carrying mes- 
sages from his master to the postilions, and the eager tones of 
a young girl’s voice were heard endeavouring to win some com- 
pliance with her wishes conti^ary to the will of her companions. 

“ It will be a pleasure to me to walk, I assure you,” she 
said ; “ the distance is but a few hundred yards, and really I 
deserve some trouble for having been so foolish as not to watch 
which way the carriage turned. It will make a considerable 
difference now to go by the road.” 

Lord Rutherford listened politely, and quietly remarking that 
Miss Wentworth was under his protection, and that he could on 
no account leave her till he had seen her safely under her 
father’s care, sent an angry reproof to the postilions for their 
stupidity, and ordered them to diive round to the rectory. 
Eleanor looked annoyed, and Blanche raised her eyes to her 
father’s face, to see if it would do to interfere ; but there was an 
expression in it which was not encouraging. The cheerful 
smile which had brightened it during the first part of their 
journey was gone, and, leaning out of the window, he kept his 
eyes riveted upon the old grey walls appearing in the distance 
above the trees. 

“ My father !” exclaimed Eleanor, as the carriage turned. 

Lord Rutherford withdrew his head, and sank back upon his 
seat. His mouth grew more stern, his brow was more gloomy 
than before ; yet it might have been only from the effort to 
repress some rising agitation, for, as Dr. Wentworth approached, 
a smile of recognition again lighted up his features, and with a 
cordial voice, and a warm pressure of the hand, he returned a 
greeting which might have been termed affectionate. 

“ I have much to thank you for,” he said ; “ but you shall 
not be detained now : we have a fellow-feeling for our children.” 

Dr. Wentworth’s mild but strikingly sensible countenance 
betrayed some painful thoughts, even as he assisted his daughter 
to alight, and welcomed her eagerly ; but they were momentary 
only, and again drawing near the carriage, he said, “ Lady 
Blanche is almost a stranger ; we have not met I think for two 
years.” 

Blanche bent forward and gave him her hand. Lord 
Rutherford was evidently interested in watching the meeting, 
yet he looked annoyed rather than pleased with Dr. Went- 
worth’s kind expressions of satisfaction. 




THE earl’s daughter. 


25 


“ I am Dot parting from Eleanor,” said Blanche, in answer to 
Dr. Wentworth’s regret that his daughter’s return home should 
be necessarily alloyed by a separation from her friend. “ I wish 
you would not talk of it : we shall meet, as we have done, 
every day.” 

Dr. Wentworth smiled doubtfully. 

“ To-morrow Eleanor will be with me the first moment she 
can be spared,” continued Blanche, gaily ; “ and if that should 
not be early, I must be with her, and then we will arrange for 
the future.” 

There was a silent assent, and Eleanor, who had been stand- 
ing apart, went round to the other side of the carriage to say 
good-b’ye. 

“ It is good-b’ye, really, — ^for long, for ever in some ways, 
Blanche,” she whispered. 

Blanche was distressed. 

“ Eleanor, it is cruel to say so ; but time will show.” 

“ Yes, time will show and, trying to appear indifferent, 
Eleanor once more said, “good-b’ye,” and, putting her arm 
within her father’s, turned away. 

Blanche watched them, as they stayed to give some direc- 
tions to a man who was to follow with the luggage ; and, when 
at last they were lost to her sight, felt as if Eleanor’s words 
were prophetic. 

But the painful foreboding was soon forgotten. The earl’s 
voice recalled her to happiness ; for, delighted at being freed 
from all restraint, he now gave free vent to his affecj^jon, and 
pointing to the range of richly-wooded hills, the green meadows, 
and neat clustering cottages, he told her that all she could see 
was her own ; that earth for him had but one treasure ; and that, 
whilst she was spared to him, nothing would add to his enjoy- 
ment, except by ministering to hers. 

“ JSTow,” he said, when the winding road brought them full 
in front of the castle, “ look, once more ; there is no view of it 
hke this.” 

Blanche looked, and her heart throbbed within her as she 
realized for the first time the grandeur of her future home. 
Rutherford Castle stood upon a high promontory, which rose 
almost perpendicularly from the banks of a deep-flowing stream. 
The most ancient part of what had once been a fortress of con- 
siderable strength was built upon the solid rock, and the huge 
blocks of masonry could scarcely be distinguished from the 
impregnable walls of nature’s formation : but the advance of 

2 


26 


THE earl’s daughter. 


civilization had induced the Lords of Rutherford, from time to 
time, to add to the original stronghold, at first a lower tower 
and massive wing's, then gateways, and turrets, and quadrangles, 
till the castle, stretching over the crest of the hill, formed a pile 
of building which, although irregular in outline, was still as a 
whole singularly imposing. Immediately in front of the castle 
was a broad space of smooth turf, and from this the ground to 
the left fell .in a bank thickly planted with trees, which, as it 
neared the river, 'was broken by grey moss-gi-own rocks. But 
the most striking points of scenery were not discoverable from 
below ; and when Blanche clasped her hands in ecstasy, and 
declared that she had never imagined anything half so beau- 
tiful, the earl smiled contentedly, and, bidding the postilions 
hasten, he sat in silence listening to her exclamations, as every 
step in advance brought them some fresh object of beauty. 

The high battlemented gateway was passed, and the carriage 
entered the park ; and, after a drive of about half a mile, slowly 
ascended the hill. As they approached nearer and nearer to 
the castle. Lord Rutherford roused himself from his leaning 
posture, and gazing from the window, seemed endeavouring to 
recall the long-past scenes which were associated with nearly 
every object that met his eye. Blanche, with an instinctive 
delicacy of sympathy, did not attempt to interrupt him : her 
pleasure was no longer openly expressed, and it was not till the 
carriage stopped before the heavy portal, and a glorious land- 
scape, with a foreground of rock and river, and a distance of 
far-spreading woods and pastures, and fields ripening with the 
golden corn, was disclosed before her, that she exclaimed, “ Papa, 
it does not seem like earth !” 

At the sound of her sweet voice, the earl awoke from his 
reverie. “ It shall be paradise to you,” he said, “ if mortal 
power can make it so and, alighting from the carriage, he 
hurried her forward into the hall. 

The servants were assembled to receive them ; and the earl 
presented Lady Blanche to them as their mistress. “ Your 
mistress now,” he said emphatically, “ as much as she must be 
in years to come ;” and as he spoke many eyes of admiration 
and respect were turned to the gentle girl, who so gracefully and 
meekly returned the reverential salutations of her dependants. 

Lord Rutherford’s impatience scarcely waited till the neces- 
sary introduction was over. Proudly and firmly he passed on 
through the splendid apartments ; yet, if Blanche had watched 
his countenance, she might have seen that all not equally 


THE earl’s daughter. 


27 


firm within. It was but the outline of a marble bust which 
caught his attention, but he quickened his steps, and compressed 
his lips, whilst he turned to see whether the bright fair features 
of his child did indeed resemble the cold but matchless beauty 
which the hand of art had so exquisitely sculptured. 

Blanche followed him, bewildered by the novelty of her situ- 
ation, and the strangeness of all she saw ; so different from 
St. Ebbe’s, with its few simple rooms and modern furniture. 
The dark oaken panellings and grotesque carvings, the rich yet 
cumbrous cabinets, the heavy gilded cornices, and faded tapes- 
tries, were of the fashions of centuries past : and Blanche, though 
delighted to behold what she had so often in imagination pic- 
tured, yet felt something of awe steal over her, as they traversed 
the empty chambers which for years had been disused ; and 
which, even when the castle was filled with guests, had been 
considered more as a necessary incumbrance than as at all con- 
ducing to its convenience. 

Lord Rutherford read what was passing in her mind. 

“ These are but the vestibules,” he said ; “ the ante-rooms — ■ 
endurable for appearance, but not habitable. You shall have 
something different for your own enjoyment;” and, pushing 
aside some massive folding doors, he led the way into a hall paved 
with marble, and partly filled with rare plants. They have 
attended to my orders well,” he observed, as he looked around 
him with a pleased air ; “ and here are your rooms, Blanche. 
Look at them, and tell me what more they require.” As he 
said this. Lord Rutherford entered a small but lofty and very 
prettily shaped apartment, which though harmonizing with the 
rest of the castle in its general style, was fitted up with many 
of the refinements of modern luxury. The choice pictures, the 
piano and harp, the sofas, couches, work-table, and books ; and 
especially, the flowers with which the vases on the tables were 
filled, gave Blanche, in an instant, the idea of forethought, and 
care, and affection ; though, when she tried to express her 
gratitude, slie could find no words to satisfy her feelings. 

The earl, however, did not need words ; he looked at her for 
a moment with proud delight, whilst in her grace and beauty 
she stood in the centre of the room, the fitting mistress of all 
that wealth and love could bestow ; and, after pointing to a 
small study opening from the outer room, he said, carelessly, 
“ We will see the view from this side now, Blanche ; it is 
different from the other.” 

Blanche followed him through the hall into the garden ; but 


28 


THE earl’s daughter. 


when she leant over the parapet, which bordered the terrace in 
front of the window, she started almost with alarm upon dis- 
covering the giddy height at which she stood above the deep 
river that flowed round the castle. 

To the right, the walls of the keep shut out the view over the 
distant countiy ; but immediately before her the ground sank 
almost perpendicularly, and far, far below gleamed the clear 
waters of the' rapid stream, as it forced its way between the 
rocky foundations of the castle and the lofty wooded hill which 
formed its opposite bank. For about the space of a quarter of 
a mile it was inclosed in a narrow ravine ; but a sharp projecting 
point of land then opposing its further progress, its course was 
suddenly diverted in a different direction ; and the eye, no 
longer able to follow its windings, turned rather to the long 
vista of hills, locked into each other, and capped by the rugged 
outline of a mountain-peak, which formed the termination of the 
valley. 

The scene was striking even to the earl, accustomed though 
he was to the varied beauties of other lands ; but to Blanche, 
as she beheld it for the first time under the dark shadows and 
brilliant lights of a soft yet not cloudless sky, its effect was 
magical. 

“ It is your home, Blanche,” said the earl, as he stood beside 
her, watching the feelings that were plainly working in her 
countenance. 

“ And yours, too, papa,” said Blanche, striving at length to 
give her father some idea that she appreciated his affection. 
“ It can never be my paradise without you.” 

“Then we will make our agreement to-night, my child,” 
replied the earl ; “ our happiness shall be in each other, — and, 
whilst we are together, the world shall never intrude upon us 
with its cares.” 

Blanche smiled sweetly, yet the words so full of hope and 
happiness fell with something of a discordant sound upon her 
ear. The serpent had entered into Eden, and how could she 
dare to anticipate immunity from evil ? The earl, however, 
seemed at that moment to have no forebodings ; — every trace 
of sadness had passed from his brow, and his voice was more 
cheerful than Blanche had yet heard it. He would not, how- 
ever, allow her to linger longer on the terrace, fearing lest she 
would be fatigued after the journey ; and, summoning her maid, 
insisted that she should retire to her room for a short time to 
rest before she rejoined him for the evening. Blgnche, however. 


THE earl’s daughter. 


29 


did not rest: she retired indeed, but it was to kneel humbly 
before her God ; to acknowledge his mercies, and pray that the 
blessings which He had vouchsafed to grant her might never 
lead her he^rt astray. 


CHAPTER VI. 

If the first waking to a sense of sorrow is bitter almost 
beyond any other moment of suffering, so the first dawning of 
happiness, at least upon the young, is bright beyond the power 
of description. Blanche dreamt th^at she was in the old manor- 
house of St. Ebbe’s, grieving over a letter from her father, 
which, as had so often been the case, gave her no prospect of 
seeing him. She opened her eyes, and the sun was shining 
into a spacious, gorgeously furnished chamber, fitted rather it 
might seem for the palace of a queen than for her own simple 
tastes. For an instant, she scarcely understood the reality of 
her senses ; but, as she hastily rose and gazed from the window, 
a full consciousness of her happiness came over her. There 
were the old grey castle walls, the silvery stream, the woods 
and hills, now bathed in morning light, and the distant moun- 
tain-peak wreathed with a vapoury mist, — all which she had 
beheld the previous evening, and which she felt must be for ever 
associated with the thought of her father’s love. It was then 
very early, but Blanche did not consider the hour, and had no 
remembrance of the preceding day’s exertion ; and, long before 
the earl had left his room, she was wandering through the 
garden and the park, exploring overgrown paths, and mounting 
hillocks, to gain a clearer idea of the beauties of her new home. 
Lord Rutherford gently found fault with her, when she appeared 
at breakfast, for having given herself so much unnecessary fatigue ; 
but when Blanche gaily declared that she did not feel it, and that 
she could bear more than many who appeared much stronger, 
he seemed quite satisfied that she should follow her own fancy, 
and began to make arrangements for what was to be done 
during the day. 

“ You will find it but a short walk to the rectory,” he said ; 
“ and I suppose you will wish to go there the first thing, unless 
Miss Wentworth should be here soon, which, from what I 
remember of the family habits, is not very likely. I never could 
induce Dr. Wentworth to leave his books till after luncheon.” 


30 


THE earl’s daughter. 


“ But Eleauoi;^s habits are the habits of St. Ebbe’s, not of tlie 
rectory,” replied Blanche, “ and she will do whatever she thinks 
will please me. 1 should like to go to her, though, extremely. 
I want so much to see more of her family — her sister and her 
brother — and especially her mother.” 

“ Her sister must be a mere child,” replied the earl ; “ and her 
brother, I suspect, is away ; and as for Mrs. Wentworth, she is 
not a person to get on with, as it is called. She is very good, 
and all that ladies always are ; but I never could understand 
that she was anything more.” 

“ Eleanor is very fond of her mother,” said Blanche. 

“ Yes, my love, very likely she may be ; but I don’t want 
you to be disappointed, and I have no idea that you will be 
fond of Mrs. Wentworth.” 

Blanche however was disappointed. She had set her heart 
upon finding in Mrs. Wentworth a second Mrs. Howard.” 

“ Eleanor used to show me some of her letters,” she said ; 
“ and they made me think she must be almost perfect.” 

Something like a contemptuous smile crossed the earl’s face. 

“ You will have different notions of perfection, Blanche,” he 
said, “ as you grow older. It is not so often to be met with as 
some people think.” 

Blanche made no reply. That peculiar smile was one to 
which she was unaccustomed, and Lord Rutherford not 
continuing the subject, nothing more was said about Mrs. 
Wentworth. 

“ I shall make Eleanor come back with me, and assist in all I 
have to do,” said Blanche, as her father suggested that there 
would be ample employment for her in choosing how she would 
have everything placed in her rooms, and making herself at 
home in them. “ She promised me she would ; so I had better 
go to her at once.” 

* Then we will walk together,” said the earl. “ I must see 
Wentworth myself, and thank him for the care he has taken in 
seeing your apartments prepared for your reception.” 

The path to the rectory was much shorter than Blanche had 
anticipated, leading down the steep hill upon which the castle 
stood, and then following the course of the river for a little 
distance, till it terminated at a wicket-gate, which opened into 
the shrubbery adjoining the house. Blanche was delighted 
with the neatness and beauty of the small pleasure-ground 
through which they passed, and the comfortable appearance of 
the parsonage, with its trelliced verandah covered with creepers. 


»THE earl’s daughter. 


31 


She would not have exchanged her own magnificent home for 
it ; but she felt that there was nothing to give rise in Eleanor’s 
mind to any feelings of envy or discontent. It was the home 
of, affluence, if not of riches. 

The drawing-room was empty when they were shown into it, 
and Blanche had time to recognise many things which Eleanor 
had described before ; and to study with much interest a like- 
ni>ss which she was certain must be that of Mrs. Wentworth, 
before any one appeared. 

The first interruption was from a huge Newfoundland dog, 
which sprang through the open window in bold defiance of the 
warning voice of his master, who immediately followed. He 
was a young man, apparently about three or four-and-twenty, 
tall and rather striking in his appearance, and with a countenance 
which would have been termed extremely handsome ; but 
Blanche, as startled by the intrusion she turned from the 
examination of Mrs. Wentworth’s picture, was less aware that 
his features v/ere regular, and his manners polished, than that 
he was not entirely the person she had expected to meet in 
Eleanor’s brother. Such it was evident, from the strong resem- 
blance, he must be. There was cleverness certainly in his bright 
blue eye, and the high forehead round which his dark hair was 
carefully arranged ; and his mouth was good-tempered, though 
perhaps a little sarcastic ; but a self-satisfaction betrayed itself 
in his look and general deportment, which almost from the first 
glance Blanche felt to be repugnant to her taste. Yet there 
was little said that could show anything of his disposition. A 
few apologies were made for his sudden entrance, and a little 
regret expressed that they should have been kept waiting ; and 
then Mr. Wentworth bowed, and retired, with the intention of 
seeking his mother and sister, who he believed were to be 
found in the garden. 

“ I should have known him anywhere,” exclaimed the earl, 
when he was gone ; “ and you would, too, I am sure, Blanche. 
Did you 3ver see such a likeness ?” 

“ It is striking, certainly,” replied Blanche, with some hesita- 
tion ; j‘ but ” 

“ Well,” said the earl, laughing, “ what is your but ? I should 
have thought it impossible to criticise anything so regularly 
handsome.” 

“ I do not mean to criticise, papa,” said Blanche, blushing ; 
“ but I don’t think it would please me if Eleanor were 
exactly ” 


32 


THE EARLES DAUGHTER.* 


The sentence was not concluded, for Eleanor at that instant 
appeared, her face bright with pleasure and excitement. 

“ It is so kind, so very kind in you, Blanche,” she said. “ I 
did not in the least expect you ; for I am sure you must have 
as much to do as I have.” 

“ I have left it all,” replied Blanche, “ till you were with me. 
You know I am never able to please myself ; and you must go 
back to the castle presently, and help me to arrange my rooms, 
and then we will settle all sort of things. But I wanted so 
much, first, to see your mother and little Susan.” 

“ And Charles !” exclaimed Eleanor, eagerly. “ He told us 
you were here : he came only last night, and he is going away 
again to-morrow.” 

“ So soon !” observed the earl ; “ we shall scarcely have time 
to make his acquaintance.” 

“ I don’t know why he should go,” replied Eleanor ; “ but I 
don’t think he finds as much amusement here as he does else- 
where. Home is rather dull for a young man.” 

Blanche believed this because she was told it, but it seemed 
strange. She could not imagine what society any one could 
want beyond such a sister as Eleanor, such parents as she 
believed Dr. and Mrs. Wentworth to be, and such a home as 
Rutherford Rectory. 

“ Mamma will be here instantly ; she is longing to see you, 
Blanche,” continued Eleanor. 

“ I think I hear Mrs. Wentworth’s voice,” said Lord Ruther- 
ford ; and he went a few paces into the garden to meet her ; 
but though his words were cordial and easy, his tone was not ; 
and but for Mrs. Wentworth’s perfect calmness of manner, there 
might have been something awkward in the meeting. 

Blanche did feel as her father had expected, when Mrs. 
Wentworth advanced towards her, and simply took her hand 
as she would have done that of an indifferent person. She had 
expected some show of feeling, at least for Eleanor’s sake ; but 
Mrs. Wentworth’s soft, quiet voice underwent no change in its 
intonation, even when she looked at the earl, and said “ Lord 
Rutherford’s return will now be doubly welcome to us all.” 

A few trifling observations passed, and Lord Rutherford, with 
a slight accent of impatience, inquired if there was no hope of 
seeing Dr. Wentworth. 

“ He has been called into the village unexpectedly,” replied 
Mrs. Wentworth : “ but we expect him to return immediately. 
Can I deliver any message for him ?” 


THE earl’s DAUGHTER. 


33 


“ Perhaps I might be allowed to leave a note in his study,” 
replied the earl. “ I think I know where to find it,” and he 
left the room. 

Blanche in the meantime had been interested in observing 
Mrs. Wentworth more minutely. She resembled Eleanor’s 
description, in her tall, slight figure, and delicate, though rather 
harassed-looking countenance ; but there were no traces of the 
feelings which had been so vividly portrayed in her letters, 
That she was Eleanor’s mother, Blanche could scarcely believe, 
as she watched the eager impetuosity of the one, and the marble 
frigidity of the other ; still less could she believe that Eleanor 
could ever dare to unburden her heart to such a mother. And 
yet the love which she had been told existed between them had 
been her “ beau ideal ” of what the tie between a parent and 
a child might and ought to be. When Lord Rutherford was 
gone, however, there was a little change in Mrs. Wentworth’s 
manner. The questions which she asked were marked by con- 
sideration, and a desire to understand something of Blanche’s 
feelings, at this her first visit to her home ; and though the 
tone in which they were put was cold, it still betrayed some- 
thing more of real sympathy than before ; and when Blanche 
began to express her pleasure in the taste and care which had 
been shown in furnishing her rooms, a quiet smile even stole 
over Mrs. Wentworth’s features, and her eye brightened, though 
she immediately afterwards turned from the subject. But 
Blanche had not much time for any further remarks. Eleanor 
insisted upon taking her to the school-room, and the garden 
and shrubbery, and, as she said, making her at home at once ; 
and Blanche, only too glad of an excuse to be alone with her, 
readily followed. It did not require much time to see the 
whole, but Blanche lingered with pleasure to listen to all that 
Eleanor had to say of past enjoyments and future hopes asso- 
ciated with the place in which she had been born,, as well as to 
make acquaintance with her sister Susan, an intelligent-looking 
child, about eight years of age, who was now to be Eleanor’s 
pupil. 

“ I think you must be happy, Eleanor,” she exclaimed, as 
they seated themselves at length on a garden-seat, in a retired 
part of the shrubbery. “ I do not see one thing that is wanting. 
And you will lead such a useful life.” 

“ I have been talking to papa already about what I am to 
do,” replied Eleanor. “ I am to teach Susan in the mornings, 
and to go in the afternoons to see some of the poor people ; 

2 * 


34 


THE earl’s daughter. 


and sometimes I am to ride with him, and he is going to read 
with me some part of the day.’’ 

“ And your music and drawing ?” said Blanche. 

“ Oh ! I must contrive to have some time before breakfast. 
You know I cannot arrange for every hour exactly till I have 
tried ; but that will be the sort of life.” 

“ And what is to become of me ?” said Blanche. 

“ That is what I wished to talk to .you about. We must 
manage to go to the poor people together ; and, when Susan 
has a holiday, I can come up to you in the morning, and w^e 
can ride together ; and then, these nice summer evenings, there 
will be no difficulty in meeting.” 

Eleanor spoke eagerly and confidently, and Blanche did not 
stop to analyse possibilities ; nor did she remark how much 
her friend had changed since they had parted the preceding 
evening. She was too much accustomed to Eleanor’s varying 
moods to inquire their cause. 

“ I am longing to begin,” continued Eleanor ; “ but to-day 
you know is no day, and Charles being here makes such a^ 
difference. It is impossible, to do anything but idle away one’s 
time with him.” 

Blanche smiled, but she did not wish the subject to be pur- 
sued ; for she was afraid lest Eleanor might discover that Mr. 
Wentworth, notwithstandino* his handsome face and his ao-ree- 
able manners, did not entirely answer her preconceived expec- 
tations. 

“ And now I have talked all about myself,” said Eleanor, E. 
should like to hear something about yourself : — the castle, and 
your father, and your own rooms. They must be exquisite, I 
am sure. Mamma had the who^ie choosing of the furniture, 
and everything, and she has such taste !” 

“Yes, indeed she has,” exclaimed Blanche ; “ but I wish I had 
known it, I should have thanked her so much more.” 

“ Oh ! mamma is not a person to require thanks ; she only 
requires to know that you like it : and I saw by her smile just 
now that she w^as satisfied. That is her unselfish smile. I 
believe she would have it if she was in the greatest suffering, 
if she thought another person was happy.” 

“ I did not know what it meant,” said Blanche ; “ but I sup- 
pose I shall understand you all by-and-by, when I don’t feel so 
shy.” 

Eleanor laughed. 

“ As to that, Blanche,” she said, “ you have no right to com- 


THE earl’s daughter. 3$ 

plain. The joint wisdom and gravity of my whole family — 
uncles, aunts, and cousins included, and I have an interminable 
number, could never be half as awful as Lord Rutherford’s 
polif^ness ; I don’t know what I shall do at the castle.” 

“ I think I rather like being afraid of him,” said Blanche. 
“ Do you remember, Eleanor, how we used to walk up and 
down the garden at St Ebbe’s, and discuss the diflerent kinds 
of affection ?” 

“ And how we always differed,” said Eleanor. “ You with 
your fondness for looking up ; and I with my perverse inclina- 
tion to look down ; no, not down exactly, but- quite on a level.” 

“ And then our appeals to Mrs. Howard,” said Blanche. 
“ That will be the one great thing wanting to my happiness. 
If she were but here !” 

“ Yes,” replied Eleanor, “ but she will be with us soon, and 
then it will be such great, such very great pleasure ; and now, 
without her, I have more hope of making you think as I do in 
all sorts of ways ; for she always supported you.” 

“ But,” said Blanche, “ before Mrs. Howard talked to us, I 
never could see anything in your arguments to convince me 
that love is greatest when persons are on an equality ; and 
there is one thing, you know, entirely against it, devotion — 
which is the highest and purest love.” 

“ I can’t follow you in an argument, Blanche, to-day,” 
exclaimed Eleanor ; “ my mind is not up to it, as it is some- 
times.” 

Blanche looked disappointed. “ I thought,” she said, “ that 
yiju would let me talk of these things always.” 

“ Yes, so you shall ; but I don’t think I am in that sort of 
sober mood to-day ; I am too happy.” 

“ I am happy, too,” said Blanche ; “ but my extacies went 
away with my walk this morning, and I don’t wish them to 
last.” 

“ Mine never do,” replied Eleanor, laughing ; “ so I am in no 
fear. I shall pay dearly for all my enjoyment before night 
comes, I dare say. It would be much better to be like you, 
Blanche ; your extacies never go quite away, I am sure, though 
you say they do.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Blanche ; “ certainly I don’t feel much of 
them at this moment ; and some feelings you have which are 
much more lasting than mine.” 

Blanche spoke as she thought, truly : yet it was only her 
own humility, and a natural respect for Eleanor’s talents and 


36 


THE earl’s daughter. 


decided opinions, which could have blinded her to the fact, that 
Eleanor was in reality swayed by every passing impulse ; that 
she expressed herself strongly, but that she acted weakly. And, 
if Blanche had been quicker in discerning, Eleanor would -have 
felt greater hesitation in owning her faults. But it required no 
effort to lament changeableness and hastiness, and the defects 
of an enthusiastic temperament, when she was sure to be met 
with a quick refutation of her self accusations, and to hear 
instances adduced which apparently proved her to be the very 
reverse of what she acknowledged. It was one of the weak- 
nesses of Blanche’s character that where she loved she could 
not or would not see anything amiss. “ I must try and be 
regular in my habits,” she said, “ pursuing the conversation ; 
“ but I am afraid it will be very difficult. I should like espe- 
cially to know something of the poor peo]3le, if your papa will 
put me in the way.” 

“ Papa hopes you will take a great interest in them,” said 
Eleanor ; “ he told me this morning that it was of immense 
consequence to you and to them ; and he talked a great deal 
about the vast power, either for good or evil, which had been 
placed in your hands.” 

“ In mine ! ” exclaimed Blanche ; “ now when I am so 
young.” 

“ But you are not going to remain young always,” replied 
Eleanor ; “ and, besides, whether young or old, you are still 
Lady Blanche Evelyn, the heiress of Rutherford.” 

“ Yes,” answered Blanche, with a deep sigh, which made 
Eleanor laugh heartily. 

“You are the very strangest person, Blanche ! Just think 
how many thousands there are in the world who would envy 
you.” 

“ And I am to be envied,” exclaimed Blanche, “ for my 
friends, — for papa, and Mrs. Howard, and you ; and for my 
health too, and my education, and innumerable things ; but not 
because I was born to have power.” 

“ Yes, if you exercise it properly,” said Eleanor. 

“If! but there is a doubt. Mrs. Howard is afraid of me; 
she thinks I shall be spoilt, and that papa will not tell me 
of my faults. Oh ! Eleanor, it might be very different if I had 
a mother.” 

“ You may have one if you choose,” replied Eleanor. “ Mam- 
ma is already inclined to feel for you as her child.” 

Blanche did not receive the comfort which was expected from 


THE earl’s daughter. 37 

this assurance : her notion of a mother’s affection was of some- 
thing widely different from Mrs. Wentworth’s cold shake of 
the hand. “Your mamma is very kind,” she said; “I am 
sure she will do everything she can to help me. But still I 
must be left very much to myself ; and even during the few 
hours I have been at home, I have understood more of what 
Mrs. Howard meant. The castle is so grand, and the servants 
seem almost to bow before me ; and as for papa, he watches 
my every look, that I may not have a wish ungratified ; and 
when I awoke this morning, and saw my beautiful room, I did 
not feel as I used to do at St. Ebbe’s ; I thought that I could 
order more and have my own will ; and then I remembered 
what Mrs. Howard said, and I was frightened.” 

Eleanor was touched by this simple confession. That which 
caused alarm to Blanche, would, she well knew, have passed 
unnoticed by herself. “ You will be used to it all, dear Blanche, 
by-and-by,” she said ; “ and then you will not think so much 
about it, and worry yourself; and I dare say we shall both be 
able to go on steadily ; and if you want to know the poor 
people, we can go to them together. The first person we must 
find out is the blind girl who was confirmed with us. Papa 
says he knows who she is very well ; it was her aunt, who is 
the mistress of the Charity School, that she was staying with ; 
but she is coming back directly. We will go and see her the 
first day we can, won’t we \ ” 

Even this shadow of a duty was some relief to poor Blanche, 
whose conscience had a natural tendency to become morbidly 
sensitive, and Eleanor saw that she had struck upon the right 
chord. Anxious to make Blanche feel as light-hearted as- her- 
self* she continued to plan a scheme of duties and occupations, 
so cleverly and earnestly, that before the conversation was 
interrupted both were equally satisfied. Eleanor having talked 
herself into the belief that she was certainly devoted to a useful 
life ; and Blanche, having listened, till she was persuaded that 
with such a friend, constantly at hand to remind her of neglects, 
she could never go far astray. 

The afternoon was spent at the castle, where Blanche found 
sufficient to occupy and interest both herself and Eleanor in the 
arrangement of her rooms ; and when they parted it was with 
the agreement that, if the earl had no other plan for the ensu- 
ing day, they were to walk together into the village. “ And if 
he wishes me to ride with him, instead,” said Blanche ; “ I 
must ask him to let me come to you for an hour in the evening.” 


38 . 


THE earl’s daughter. 


Eleanor willingly agreed, delighted to find that as yet there 
was no cause for jealousy, since even the society of Lord Ruther- 
ford did not make Blanche forget her. 


^ CHAPTER VII. 

And so passed the first day of Blanche’s residence it Ruther- 
ford Castle ; and so passed several days ; varied, indeed, by 
drives, and rides, and books, and visits, both to rich and poor ; 
but all, equally bright and unalloyed, for the petty disappoint- 
ments and trifling vexations from which no care and no affection 
can guard us, were little felt by one who carried in her own. 
breast a shield against them. Each morning long before the 
Earl was awake, Blanche knelt in the solitude of her own 
chamber to pray for guidance during the day ; and then, with 
her Bible in her hand, paced the broad terrace overhanging the 
river, that she might study the will of her Maker, amid the 
scenes which brought His power and goodness most clearly to 
her view. Each day she planned her occupations with a view 
to her own improvement, her father’s happiness, and the com- 
fort of those who were in a measure entrusted to her care ; and 
not the most busy hour nor the most absorbing pursuit could 
lead her to forget that it was needful to withdraw some 
moments from this world to devote to the contemplation of 
another. Mrs. Howard had early implanted in her mind 
habits of order and punctuality ; and, duly as the time came, 
which she had fixed upon as the most free from interruption, 
Blanche retired to her own chamber to consider what she had 
done since last engaged in the same duty ; or, if prevented at 
the exact minute, the first leisure opportunity was eagerly 
seized upon, without any ‘egard to the plausible excuses, which 
might easily have been made from weariness or a pre-occupied 
mind. Blanche never forgot Mrs. Howard’s words, “ Not, I 
will if I can, but I must.” And one especial reason she now 
had for allowing nothing to interfere with her religious duties, 
in the hope of Wng so soon admitted to the full communion of 
the Church, and the anxiety fitly to prepare herself. 

On the second Sunday after Blanche appeared in the old 
village church of Rutherford, the accustomed invitation was 
given to all “ such as should be religiously and devoutly dis- 
posed,” and as Blanche listened to the words a feeling of loneli- 


THE earl’s daughter. 


39 


ness stole over her. Eleanor was near, with the mother, who 
could share every thought and feeling ; and the father, whose 
voice faltered, as his eye rested on the countenance of the child 
he so dearly loved, and to whom for the first time the exhorta- 
tion was addressed. And Blanche stood m that sacred building, 
with but one exception, the noblest and wealthiest of all ; and 
with her was the proud earl whose sternest will would have 
yielded to her wishes, as the humblest of his servants would 
have submitted to his ; but the one great blessing which she 
then desired, a parent’s sympathy and advice on the subject 
most deeply concerning her happiness, was denied her. 

Upon this topic alone no word had passed between them — 
they met in the morning and the world was the theme of their 
conversation ; they parted at night and no words of prayer were 
uttered to call for a blessing upon the midnight hour. Poetry, 
and painting, and music, and literature, and even the deeper 
subjects of science and philosophy, were all at times introduced, 
and Blanche with her natural refinement and superiority of 
mind was fascinated by the earl’s eloquent language and 
exquisite taste. His words were as the words of enchantment ; 
for, as he spoke of Italy and Greece, and the sunny islands of 
the south, even Blanche forgot for the moment that earth was 
but the stepping-stone to heaven ; its beauty, but a type of that 
which shall be hereafter ; its genius and its learning, but the 
faint and misused relics of that perfect creation which only when 
it issued taintless from the hands of its Creator, was pronounced 
to be “ very good.” But the earl ceased, and Blanche was left 
to her own meditations, and then as she retraced the conversa- 
tion and sought for something which should be treasured in her 
memory, a vague sense of unsatisfactoriness filled her mind. A 
glittering pageant seemed to have passed before her; but it 
was gone. And of what avail was it to her to have vividly 
realised the solemn beauty of Genoa, and the dazzling lustre of 
Naples ; to have wandered in fancy beneath the vast dome of 
St. Peter’s, or stood amidst the giant ruins of the Coliseum ; 
to have floated in the dark gondolas of Venice, or gazed upon 
the blue waters of the Mediterranean ; or how could it content 
her to hear of Raphael, and Michael Angelo, and Guido ; — of 
Dante and Ariosto, and Tasso and Petrarch, and the names 
which associate Italy with all that is most precious in poetry 
and art, if all were but for the amusement of the hour, bearing 
no voice of warning from the past, no lesson of instruction for 
the future ? But Blanche did not yet understand all she had 


40 


THE earl’s daughter. 


to fear. She marvelled indeed at her father’s apparent neglect 
of the subject most interesting to herself ; she thought it strange 
that not even an allusion was made to it : but she was capti- 
vated by the brilliancy of his conversation, and accounted for his 
silence by remembering her own reluctance to converse upon 
serious subjects, except at peculiar times and under certain 
circumstances. She had been told that her own manner gave 
no true impression of her mind, and so she supposed it must be 
with him. A faint cloud was stealing over the sunlight of her 
joy, but she saw it not. 

And the day drew near to which Blanche so earnestly looked 
forward with mingled hope and awe. 3t was the evening before, 
and having returned from a long ride with her » father over one 
of the most beautiful portions of his property, she sat down on 
a bank which overlooked the windings of the river, and the 
opening into the country beyond. 

There 'was nothing to disturb the repose of the scene, except 
the distant lowing of cattle in the pastures, and the dashing of 
a mountain torrent, which escaping from the woody dell on the 
opposite side, fell sparkling and frothing over a steep broken 
cliff, and wound its way amid stones and mosses till it was lost 
in the deep current of the larger stream. 

Blanche rested her head against the trunk of a tree, and gave 
way to one of those delicious reveries of feeling rather than of 
thought ; which, when the fancy is free, and the heart un- 
burdened by care, are amongst the most perfect enjoyments of 
our early years. 

'The loveliness of the landscape was in accordance with the 
tone of mind which she had been endeavouring to attain during 
the day ; and when, at length yielding to fatigue, she fell 
asleep, the images which haunted her dreams were pure and 
holy as ner waking thoughts. 

A few minutes afterwards, there was the sound of an ap- 
proaching footstep ; and, advancing from the shade of the 
shrubbery, the earl stood by her side. 

What could he have seen in a countenance so fair in its 
youthful purity, to make him start and sigh — and then gaze 
long and steadfastly with a frowning brow, and a mouth quiver- 
ing with agitation? Was it that in those features he saw a 
resemblance which recalled the tale of his by-gone life ; or did 
he read the \isions which were passing before the eye of his 
sleeping child, and shrink from the conviction that the hopes 


THE earl’s daughter. 4l 

which to her were all in all, were to him scarcely more than 
the superstitions of an age of darkness ? 

Yet, Lord Rutherford was no sceptic. He was but what 
thousands have been before him; in name, the follower of 
Christ — in heart, the slave of the world. Whatever might be 
his own indifference to religion he had no desire that it should 
be shared by his daughter, and the character of Lady Blanche 
often derived a peculiar though painful interest from the simple 
ardent piety which occasionally broke forth through her natural 
reserve ; and which, to the earl’s refined but hackneyed taste, 
gave her the appearance rather of a being from another sphere 
than of one born to participate in the vain heartlessness of 
fashionable society. He could admire, though he could not 
imitate ; and now, as he watched her, so calm, and peaceful, and 
tranquilly happy, a pang of envy crossed his mind. Such peace 
as hers, even were it delusive, would be cheaply purchased at 
the sacrifice of all that he had hitherto valued. Yet, it was 
envy, not self-reproach; and the next moment he pictured 
her such as he intended she should be — the star of a glittering 
assemblage — flattered, courted, idolized ; gathering around her 
all that was most attractive in grace and intellect ; herself, the 
centre to which every eye would be directed in homage. 

But the earl’s countenance changed. In imagination there 
rose up before him the still, shrouded form of one, who in by- 
gone years had realized much that he desired to see in Blanche, 
but upon whose brow the sorrow of unrequited affection had 
set its indelible stamp ; and when his eye again dwelt upon the 
living image of the wife whose love he had despised, he shud- 
dered, and stooped to kiss his daughter’s forehead with super- 
stitious awe ; and a passing dread, lest the features which bore 
the impress of fife might but chill him with the mocking 
beauty of death. The kiss awoke Blanche from her short 
sleep ; and the earl, hastily recovering himself, began to blame 
her imprudence. Blanche endeavoured to laugh away his 
fears, but proposed to return to the castle, as she had an en- 
gagement to keep. 

“ And not spare me a few minutes ?” said the earl, with a 
slight tone of pique ; “ the sun will have set soon, and then we 
shall have no temptation, to stay.” 

Blanche gathered up the folds of her riding habit, and 
taking her father’s arm they pursued their walk by the path 
which led along the side of the hill. For some time .both were 


42 


THE earl’s daughter. 


silent. Blanche could never thoroughly overcome a certain 
sense of restraint in her father’s presence ; and Lord Rutherford, 
wrapt in his own thoughts, was contented to know that she 
was with him without seeking for conversation. Blanche was 
the first to speak. 

“ I never knew, till now,” she said, “ what it was, thoroughly 
to enjoy beautiful scenery. At St. Ebbe’s, there was so little to 
see ; but, even then, I used to fancy there must be an exquisite 
charm in it.” 

“You are young,” replied the earl; “you have no painful 
associations. When you have reached my age you will feel 
very differently about all beauty.” 

“ Yet some feelings of pleasure must increase,” replied Blanche, 
more gravely than usual ; “ the best and highest.” 

“ From being able to appreciate beauty better, you mean ; 
from learning to look at it with an artist’s eye ? But that is a 
mistake ; our greatest enjoyments are those which we never 
pause to analyse.” 

“I was not thinking of that exactly,” said Blanche, with 
hesitation. 

“ Of what then, my love ? What do you call the best and 
highest pleasure ?” 

• Blanche hesitated, and then replied, timidly, as if doubtful of 
the manner in which the observation would be received, “ I 
suppose, if we were very good, we should be grateful for beauty, 
as people are for favours and presents.” 

Lord Rutherford became suddenly thoughtful. “ You are a 
metaphysician, Blanche,” he said, after a pause ; “ that was not 
one of the accomplishments I expected from Mi's. Howard.” 

“ If I am,” replied Blanche, laughing ; “ it is certainly with- 
out knowing it.” 

“ You are one, though. I have discovered a lurking taste in 
you before ; and if you really have a fancy for the subject, we 
will study a few books together on the subject. I should be 
sorry for you to have prejudiced notions. Though you are a 
woman, a little deep reading will do you no harm.” 

Blanche promised to read anything he wished ; though she 
still disclaimed any love for metaphysics ; and the earl began to 
enumerate a list of authoi’s, ending with — 

“ But, ray dear Blanche, until you have read a little, I advise 
you not to trouble yourself with too much thinking. You will 
only be puzzled, and it can lead to no good. Take up your 
music and drawing, study history if you will, and we will have 


THE earl’s daughter. 


43 


Italian and German lessons together ; but don’t attempt to dwell 
upon subjects beyond human comprehension.” 

Poor Blanche could not at all understand the reason of this 
speech ; and began to fancy that she had done or said some- 
thing wrong. 

The earl instantly remarked her change of manner, and said 
kindly, “ I would not for the world find fault with you, my 
dear ; you must not imagine it ; hut I have seen the mischief of 
too much thought with some minds, and you have been 
unusually silent the last two days !” 

“ It was not that kind of thought which made me silent,” 
exclaimed Blanche, eagerly ; “ I was thinking of — ” 

“Of what? — there can be no thought, which you would not 
wish me to know.” 

Blanche blushed deeply ; she would willingly have sheltered 
herself under her former reserve, though at the same time 
longing to break down the harrier, and receive the sympathy 
which even then she could not doubt of obtaining. The earl 
evidently expected a reply. 

Blanche felt herself forced to speak, and began ; “ I have been 
thinking ; that is, I have been trying to think ; — one ought to 
prepare oneself for to-morrow. My first Communion,” she 
added, in a tone which scarcely caught the earl’s ear. 

He stopped suddenly in his walk. “ Ah ! yes ; quite right. 
But you are very young, my dear.” 

“ Not too young ; am I ?” said Blanche, anxiously ; “ I have 
been confirmed.” 

“ No, not if you wish it ; still, it is not right to force any one. 
Mrs. Howard was always rather overstrained in her ideas.” 

“ Indeed, indeed, it was not Mrs. Howard only ; but the 
rector and the bishop, and every one said it. I thought it was 
always so,” replied Blanche. “Is there really any reason 
against it ?” 

The earl smiled. “No possible reason, my dear child ; but 
you know very little of the world, and I don’t want you to tie 
yourself down ; and in fact, my love, these things are best left 
to every one’s own feelings. If you like it, do it by all means ; 
only don’t let me see your bright face clouded again ; it makes 
me uneasy.” 

Poor Blanche felt chilled to the very heart. 

But her father had no idea of the effect of his speech, and 
continued, “ It might have been more pleasant for you to have 
waited a little. I am expecting your aunt. Lady Charlton, 


44 


THE earl’s daughter. 


shortly ; and Sir Hugh and your two cousins. You will like to 
become acquainted with them, as they are some of your nearest 
connections.” 

“ Yes, indeed,” exclaimed Blanche, relieved at finding some- 
thing to say. “ Dear mamma’s sister ! I am sure I must be 
fond of her.” 

Lord Rutherford’s tone was constrained, as he answered, 
“ Only her half-sister ; there is no resemblance and then he 
stopped suddenly, and there was a long pause. 

The thoughts of Blanche reverted to the former subject. The 
visit of one person or of hundreds — of relations or of strangers 
— seemed equally indifferent to her at that moment. 

They had reached the termination of the path ; and the earl, 
leaning over a fence, which protected the edge of the precipice, 
riveted his eyes upon the stream, and appeared lost in a reverie. 

“ It is like the current of human fife, is it not, Blanche ?” he 
said, at length. “ See how it whirls its rapid course ; and how 
the light froth, and the fragments of the bank, are borne along 
by it ; like the frothy hopes and the fleeting pleasures of the 
world. And think, too, how little we know of the end to which 
it is hastening.” 

“ Is it not travelling towards the ocean,” said Blanche, timidly; 
“ as we are all travelling towards eternity ?” 

Lord Rutherford raised himself, and put his hand suddenly 
upon her shoulder — “ What is eternity, Blanche ?” he said. 
“ We use words without meaning, when we speak of it.” 

“ But,” replied Blanche, and notwithstanding the softness of 
her voice, it sounded tremulous in its earnestness ; “ we are told 
to think of it, and it must be for our happiness ; for this world, 
the}’ say, is full of disappointment.” 

“ They say !” repeated the earl ; “ then you have never found 
it so yourself.” 

“ I have been very happy,” said Blanche, whilst she looked 
at her father with a smile of affection ; but it was followed by 
a sigh. She could not say, “ I am happy.” 

“Yes,” continued the earl, thoughtfully, “you are standing, 
as I once stood, upon a spot fi-om which you can view the past 
without regret, and the future without fear. For you it may be 
a resting-place for years ; though for me it was but a point, 
quitted as soon as reached, and to which I could never return. 
Value your peace, my child, whilst you have it; for it is vain 
to hope that any thoughts of eternity will restore it to you 
when it is once gone.” 


THE earl’s DAUOHTER. 


45 


“But, papa,” answered Blanche, firmly, whilst something 
within her own mind seemed urging her to overcome her 
reserve and speak more directly, “ even now I can feel comfort 
from such thoughts. I have been happy, because I have always 
had some one to love ; but though I know that the happiness 
cannot last, I can bear to think so, and even to look forward to 
a time when I may be left quite alone ; because true love does 
not seem to belong to earth, but to eternity. Is it not true, 
then, that these ideas do help us to bear trials ?” 

Lord Rutherford made no answer; he withdrew his ferm, 
threw himself upon a bench, and relapsed into silence. Blanche 
was frightened at her own temerity, and a sense of indescriba- 
ble wretchedness oppressed her. Her father’s principles, she 
thought, could not be the principles of a Christian. The earl 
perceived he had distressed her, and starting up and again 
drawing her arm within his, said, as he pursued his walk ; — 

“ I have vexed you, my dear child. Heaven knows how un- 
willingly! But you have been educated in retirement, and 
your life has been made up of dreams. It is impossible that 
you should understand the view which a stern, worn man, who 
has borne the struggle of years, takes of those subjects, which 
to you are everything. When you have heard them discussed 
and argued upon, and when you have known something of 
men’s actions as well as of their creeds, you will see the value of 
your favourite notions more truly. They may be important to 
you, but they will not bear contact with the world.” 

“ And must I know the world, papa ?” inquired Blanche, 
with difficulty summoning courage to answer. “ I would much 
rather live here alone with you.” 

Lord Rutherford laughed. 

“ Mrs. Howard has certainly performed her duty strictly,” he 
said. “ She promised to educate you in seclusion, and she has 
kept her word. But have you no wish for gaiety, Blanche ; 
for such an introduction into the world as your station in life 
offers you ?” 

“ I should like it, dear papa,” replied Blanche ; “ and I think 
of it very often. But I would rather stay here and keep my 
own notions, because I beheve they will make me better than 
any others.” 

“Well!” exclaimed the earl, carelessly, “cherish them as 
long as you can ; they will do no one any harm but yourself ; 
only, when your aunt and cousins come, I prophesy that you 
will think less about them.” 


46 


THE earl’s daughter. 


Poor Blanche was not comforted by this prospect. 

“ Then I shall be happier, to-morrow, with you, alone, papa,” 
she said pointedly ; anxious, if possible, to solve, by some allu- 
sion to the first topic of the conversation, the painful doubt 
whether her father intended to join with her in the service of 
the next day. Lord Rutherford did not, at first, see that she 
had any particular meaning in her words; for the subject 
referred to was not one likely long to remain in his thoughts. 
When however it occurred to him, he answered hastily : — 

“You must talk to Mrs. Wentworth, my dear; she will 
understand you in all these things better than I do.” 

“I don’t know Mrs. Wentworth well,” replied Blanche^ 
whilst tears rushed to her eyes ; “ and there is no one I love 
like you.” 

Lord Rutherford played with his stick, but said nothing 
more ; and, at length, when he saw that Blanche was again 
about to speak, he turned suddenly into another walk and left 
her. And then Blanche was indeed miserable. The* sky and 
the woods, the rocks and the river, the beauties which had 
before entranced her with delight — all were changed. Their 
brightness was gone; the spell by which they had charmed 
her was destroyed. She was alone ; and there lived not the 
being upon earth who could fill the void which that one con- 
versation 'had caused in her heart. Who could recall the rever- 
ence and holy affection which had, till then, formed her dream 
of happiness in her splendid home ? Who could restore the 
delusion which hitherto she had cherished, even against her 
own secret convictions ? 

But the spirit of youth is too buoyant to sink at once under 
any disappointment, however severe. It is the succession of 
griefs, the wearisome days, and the restless nights and the bit- 
terness of long deferred hope, which at length will bow us to 
the dust ; and Blanche had, as yet, known nothing of these. 
Her elastic, sanguine spirit again suggested the thought from 
which she had before found comfort. Her father’s manner, and 
even his words, might be no true index to his mind. He had 
not said that he should not be with her ; he had fully allowed 
that it would be right for her to attend the service, though he 
seemed to fear that she was too young. Persons had different 
opinions upon these subjects ; perhaps, after all, she had misun- 
derstood him ; and, soothed by the idea, Blanche’s countenance 
resumed, in some degree, its former serenity. The suspense, 
however, still rested as a weight upon her heart. She met her 


THE EARL S DAUGHTER. 


47 


father at dinner, and found herself, almost unconsciously 
watching his looks, and weighing his words in the faint hope 
of learning from them something more of that inner world of 
principles and motives upon which all her happiness seemed to 
depend. But she learnt nothing. The earl was silent and pre- 
occupied, and she dared not ask him the cause. When the 
castle clock struck ten, Blanche, as was her custom, rose to 
retire to rest. Then, more than ever, she missed the prayers 
which had closed the evenings at St. Ebbe’s. Hitherto she had 
accounted for the omission by supposing, either that her father 
had some reason for delay until they had been longer settled at 
home ; or that it was not a foreign custom, and therefore he 
might not think of it till some other person suggested it : but 
now it appeared too truly an indication of the neglect of all reli- 
gious forms, except that which the world has thought fit to 
honour with respect, the outward observance of the day of rest. 

Blanche leant over her father’s chair, and kissed his forehead 
again and again, as was her wont. Her love was not chilled, 
but it was altered. Doubt was mingled with it, and dread, and 
the fond clinging of the heart to happiness, which seems about 
to pass away. The earl looked up from his book, and as he 
took her trembling hand in his, he said, — 

“We have been bad companions, to-night, Blanche : are you 
tired of me 

A fear of losing self-command made Blanche pause before 
answering. Lord Kutherford moved his chair, that he might 
discover the reason ; but she had turned her head aside. 

“ You shall have other amusements soon,” continued the earl, 
and an accent of annoyance marked his words. 

“ Oh, no, papa ! I want nothing — no amusements.” 

“ But what then ? What do you want ?” 

Blanche was pained at her own weakness ; she could only 
distress her father by showing her feelings, since to explain them 
was impossible. 

“ I wish for one thing, papa,” she said in a light, gay tone, 
whilst her lip quivered with agitation, “ that you should kiss me 
and say good night.” 

The” earl pressed her to his heart, and whispered, “ God bless 
you now and ever, my own precious child and Blanche 
retreated to her room, once more happy. Her father did then 
consider the blessing of God the one first object of desire. 
Surely, therefore, he must intend to seek it where especially it 
is bestowed. 


48 


THE earl’s DA.UGHTER. 


CHAPTER VIIL 

We close our eyes in peace, and we re-open them to sorrow 
and care. It is the lot, sooner or later, of all ; the fulfilment 
of the earthly curse denounced upon our first parents, and from 
it there is no escape. We may, perhaps, have felt, upon lying 
down to rest — the anxieties of the day at an end, the weariness 
of exhausted nature inviting us to repose, and the heart calmed 
by repentance, and the blessed trust in forgiveness and 
protection, — that if it were then permitted for the Angel of 
Death to call us to our long, last sleep ; the summons, awful 
though it must ever be, would be hailed rather as a visitation 
of mercy, than as an event to be shrunk from in alarm. But 
God “ seeth not as man seeth.” He views the sins dormant 
but not destroyed ; the passion lulled but not extinguished. He 
beholds us unfit for the kingdom of His holiness, and knows 
the warfare which must be endured, before the powers of a 
regenerate nature can fully triumph over the temptations of 
Satan. And if, at times. He does in mercy make us “ to lie 
down in green pastures, and lead us beside the still waters,” it is 
only that by such seasons of refreshment we may gather 
strength for the battle, which is to “ bring every thought into 
captivity to the obedience of Christ.” 

When Blanche entered Rutherford Church, the ensuing day, 
she felt but little of the peace which had been with her when 
she lay down to rest at night. A breakftist ttte-a-tHe with the 
earl, and a few remarks during their short walk from the castle 
to the village, had again aroused her distrust. Many such 
remarks had been made before, but they had fallen on an 
unheeding ear, or rather on one which did not understand, 
because it would not suspect evil. Now, the petty indications 
of motives and feeling, which it is not in the power of the most 
practised art to conceal, were as daggers to her heart, for they 
struck upon the points on which alone her earthly haj^piness was 
then vulnerable. 

At any time a doubt which affected her father’s principles 
must have been poignantly felt ; but on no other occasion could 
it have caused so much suffering. For Blanche had striven 
humbly and earnestly to realise the awfulness of that most holy 
service in which she was then, for the first time, to be permitted 
to join. She had prayed and watched against the entrance 


THE earl’s daughter. 


49 


of every unhallowed or worldly thought, and had dedicated 
herself to her Saviour with all the warmth and sincerity of 
youthful devotedness. At such a moment, even the purest of 
earthly affections might have been deemed intrusive ; and yet, 
when she knelt in the temple of God, and bowed her head in 
reverence, and opened her lips in prayer, there arose in her 
heart, not feelings of faith and hope, but of sadness and fear. 
The words of confession were repeated, but the earl’s voice at 
her side pronounced the same language in a tone of proud 
indifference, and Blanche forgot the repentance necessary for her 
own sins, in anguish lest he should be insensible to his. And 
praises, and thanksgivings, and intercessions were uttered with a 
wandering mind ; and the solemn declarations of Scripture 
received but a half attention ; whilst she caught, as if by fasci- 
nation, her father’s restless eye and listless posture, and then 
turned in wretchedness to herself, to discover that she also, 
though not in like manner, was sinning against God. There 
was a painful struggle in her heart whilst going through the 
usual service. To be distracted then, seemed a miserable 
evidence of weakness and insincerity ; and to present herself 
before God with thoughts clinging to earth, a fearful presump- 
tion. Once it seemed easier and better to delay, — to wait for 
another opportunity, — to risk anything rather than offer a 
divided heart ; but at that moment the voice of the preacher 
spoke of Him, who “in that He Himself hath suffered, being 
tempted, is able to succour them that are tempted and 
instead of giving away to despondency, Blanche prayed the 
more fervently to be pardoned and assisted, whilst she strove 
again to recall her scattered thoughts. The last words of the 
sermon were ended ; the concluding prayers were said ; there 
was a solemn stillness in the church, followed by the rush of 
movement and departing footsteps. No tones of joy or praise 
were heard whilst one by one they, who were unwilling or 
unable to remain, left the congregation ; but silently and hastily 
they poured forth into the open air, — some, it might be, to 
grieve for the blessing of which they felt themselves unfitted to 
partake ; but too many to stifle the reproaches of conscience in 
the cares and follies of the world. 

Blanche looked at her father, as he seated himself by her 
side, and her heart bounded with joy ; but, as the church be- 
came more empty, the earl rose, and stood for a few instants 
with his hat in his hand, and when the way of retreat was at 

3 


50 


THE earl’s daughter. 


last opened without fear of mixing himself with the crowd, he, 
too, followed the common example. 

And the door was closed. 

It was a moment of bitter, most bitter sorrow ; — beyond it 
we may not look ; but when Blanche left the church she no 
longer felt that she was alone. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“Lady Blanche is .late in coming to you this morning; is 
she not, Eleanor ?” said Mrs. Wentworth, as the luncheon-bell 
rang, and little Susan ran away to prepare for what was to be 
her dinner. 

“ Rather, I think,” was the reply ; “ but Blanche is never quite 
mistress of her own time. Her father is so uncertain, and will 
make her do the very things she has determined not to do. 
He may have taken her for a ride, as likely as not.” 

“ Strange, certainly,” said Mrs. Wentworth, musingly, “ that 
when a man like Lord Rutherford devotes himself to the happi- 
ness of his daughter, he should manage to do just the very 
things she does not like.” 

“ Oh ! indeed, mamma !” exclaimed Eleanor ; “ I do think 
you are wrong there. Blanche does like most things which her 
father proposes ; the only worry is, that they come at the 
wrong time.” 

“ And does she like, then, the prospect of having the castle 
filled with visitors, and of gaieties going on continually ?” in- 
quired Mrs. Wentworth, with a slight tone of asperity, which 
suited but little with her usual gentleness. 

“ Yes, very much,” replied Eleanor. “ Lady Charlton is a 
delightful person, so every one declares. And it will be very 
nice for me, too.” 

Mrs. Wentworth seemed rather discomposed. “ You must 
remember, my dear,” she said, “ that what suits Lady Blanche 
will not suit you. Your line of duties will be totally difierent.” 

“ Oh ! yes, of course, mamma,” and Eleanor coloured, and en- 
deavoured to assume an indifferent air : “ but you know there 
is no one whom Blanche loves as she does me ; and she never 
will enjoy anything if I am not with her.” 

“ Then I am afraid she will pass a very unhappy hfe ; for you 
can be with her but seldom at the best.” 


THE earl’s daughter. 


61 


“ It is not exactly the being together, but the feeling that we 
are near, and understand each other, and can compare opinions, 
which is the pleasure ; — and — ” 

“ Well,” interrupted Mrs. Wentworth, “ compare opinions if 
you like it, and sympathise with and love each other ; I should 
be very sorry if you did not : but that does not imply the ne- 
cessity of meeting every day, especially now.” 

“ You are afraid for me, mamma,” said Eleanor, laughing. 
“ You think I shall become dissipated, and forget Susan, and 
the school, and old Nanny Marshall, and the almshouse 
women.” 

“ I have no cause to doubt you, my love,” replied Mrs. Went- 
worth affectionately ; “ but it is scarcely strange that I should 
have some misgivings about every society of which Lord 
Rutherford is the head.” 

Mrs. Wentworth spoke quickly, and Eleanor looked up in 
surprise. But her mother’s face betrayed no particular feeling ; 
it was even more placid than before, as she added, “ You can 
scarcely have failed to discover that he is not the most fitting 
person for the guardianship of a young, enthusiastic, interesting 
girl like Lady Blanche.” 

“ He would spoil her, if she could be spoilt,” said Eleanor 
carelessly. 

“ Yes ; he would spoil her,” repeated Mrs. Wentworth. 
“ He would infuse into her mind low worldly notions ; and 
make her think much of fashion and ultra-refinement, and the 
admiration of his own peculiar circle ; and if she pleases him he 
will idolise her, and if not — ” 

“ He can never cease to love her,” said Eleanor. 

Mrs. Wentworth was silent. The sudden burst of feeling 
was over, and she had relapsed into her former indifference. 

“ Blanche is very like her mother’s picture,” observed 
Eleanor. 

“ Yes, very,” replied Mrs. Wentworth ; “ but it is not of her 
that I am thinking now, Eleanor. No one can see her indeed 
without feeling most deeply for her ; but it is you who are my 
charge, my delight.” 

Eleanor smiled, and as she drew near her mother’s chair, and 
oent over it to kiss her, she said, “ And I shall be so always.” 

Mrs. Wentworth shook her head. “ Ah ! Eleanor, that is 
your stumbling-block ; confidence in yourself.” 

“ But I have begun well ; have I not, mamma ? Just re- 
member how steady and regular I have been ever since I came 


52 


THE earl’s daughter. 


home ; and how much you say yourself that Susan is improved. 
And the old almshouse women, you should have heard yester- 
day all the civil things they said ! You must not distrust me 
more than any one else. Please, don’t look so grave, and con- 
jure up such a castle spectre.” 

“ Ah ! if it were only a spectre ? But, Eleanor, I can look 
back many years. I know what the tone of society used to be 
at Eutherford, and I see no possible reason for supposing that it 
will be different now.” 

“ You were not injured by it, mamma,” said Eleanor ; “ and 
why should I be ?” 

Mrs. Wentworth sighed, “I had many safeguards,” she said ; ' 
“ yet, I will not say that I was not injured. There was only 
one over whom evil seemed to have no power.” 

“ The countess,” said Eleanor, inquiringly. 

“ Yes ; she was indeed too heavemy-minded to be approached 
by any ordinary influence ; and ” — but Mrs. Wentworth stopped, 
as if unwilling to continue the subject. 

“ Mamma,” said Eleanor, “ Lord Rutherford is very fond of 
Blanche ; was he very fond of his wife ?” 

The consciousness that luncheon was ready appeared suddenly 
to have crossed Mrs. Wentworth’s mind, for she did not give a 
direct reply ; but merely saying, that Susan would be tired of 
waiting for her dinner, she went away, and Eleanor was left to 
answer for herself as best she might the question which had 
lately become one of considerable interest. Before, however, 
she had satisfied herself, her meditations were broken in upon 
by the entrance of her father and Lady Blanche. 

“ Reposing from the fatigues of instruction, I suspect, 
Eleanor,” exclaimed Blanche, gaily. “ Has Susan been a very 
naughty child ?” 

“ Reposing from the weariness of disappointment rather,” 
replied Eleanor. “ You were to have been here an hour ago.” 

“ So I was ; but it is papa’s fault. He would come and sit 
with me ; and he read to me part of the time, and then we 
talked, and at last the post came in, and I had to write in a 
great hurry to my aunt, who is to be here the day after to- 
morrow.” 

“ Indeed ! Is Lady Charlton coming so soon ?” inquired 
Dr. Wentworth. 

“ Yes,” so she says, “if Sir Hugh feels himself equal to the 
journey ; but she writes as if he was very much out of health. 
But do you know my aunt ?” 


THE earl’s daughter. 


53 


“ I can’t tell,” said Dr. Wentworth, rather bluntly. 

Blanche and Eleanor laughed, and begged for an explanation. 

“ Why, it is rather the case of the Irishman and his tin- 
kettle ; which he declared could not be lost, because he knew 
where it was, — at the bottom of the sea. My knowledge of 
Lady Charlton is about as valuable. Know her I do ; inasmuch 
as I have spoken to her often, and even dined in company with 
her some sixteen or eighteen years ago ; but time is very 
like the sea ; you can see through it, but you cannot grasp what 
you are looking at. After all, it may only be Lady Charlton’s 
shadow, which I think I know.” 

“ I know exactly what she is like in appearance,” said 
Blanche ; “ tall and thin, dark hair and eyes, very elegant 
and — ” 

“ Fascinating,” .added Dr. Wentworth. 

“ Yes, fascinating ; that is precisely the word papa used.” 

“ And your cousins, I suppose, are fascinating too ?” said 
Eleanor, in a constrained voice. 

“Ko one knows anything about them, except that poor 
Maude is an invalid, and that they Lave been educated abroad.” 

“ Oh ! I remember,” exclaimed Eleanor ; “ Charles knew 
them, I am sure ! he said he had made acquaintance with some 
relations of yours at Florence. It was at a ball, I think, they 
met, and then they were at a great many gay parties together.” 

“ A great many too many,” muttered Dr. Wentworth in an 
under tone. 

“ TlMit was a twelvemonth ago, papa,” said Eleanor. “ It is 
not quite fair upon Charles, is it, Blanche, to quarrel with him 
for last year’s follies ?” 

“ I quarrel with no one, Eleanor,” replied Dr. Wentworth, 
very gravely ; “ but we will not keep Lady Blanche waiting 
and he led the way to the dining-room. Blanche followed, with 
the feeling that her original distaste to Mr. Wentworth had 
received some increase ; yet she blamed herself for it, and in 
order to conquer her prejudice, paid particular attention 
when other allusions were made to him in the course of her visit, 
in the hope of receiving more satisfactory answers. But to her 
surprise, she found that Dr. Wentworth, who, even in his most 
courteous moods, was short and straight-forward in manner, was, 
when this subject was approached, so abrupt as instantly to stop 
the conversation. It was clear that his son was not at that 
moment perfectly in his favour. 

This afternoon was to be devoted to the village, for Lord 


54 


THE earl’s DAUaHTER. 


Rutherford was obliged to be absent the greater part of the day, 
and Blanche generally arranged her duties in such a way as to 
give him always the first place in her attention. Under 
Dr. Wentworth’s guidance she had taken into her special charge 
a certain number of the poor, principally the aged and infirm, 
to whom her presence was almost as an angel’s visit ; so new 
and strange did it seem that one so young and so far removed 
from themselves, should take a personal interest in their comfort. 
A few there were, indeed, who remembered the time when the 
countess had occupied herself in a similar manner, and who 
regarded Lady Blanche with a degree of compassionate affection, 
which mingled with their respect as they noticed the resemblance 
to her mother. From them it was that Blanche heard many 
little traits of the countess’s character, which she could have 
learnt from no other source; and they were- treasured in her 
memory, and fondly dwelt upon as the touches which were to 
mark more vividly the outline of her mother’s image. Yet, 
when all had been repeated, and she believed that she had 
gained a clear knowledge of what the countess must have been, 
there still remained an undefined doubt of something untold. 
Reverence and love were ever associated with her name by all 
who spoke of her ; but pity was added also ; and why, Blanche 
could not understand. For it was not the pity which is 
bestowed so lavishly and unthinkingly, by the living who are 
toiling through this weary world upon the dead who have 
entered upon their rest, but rather that which must ever be felt 
for those whom neither high station, nor wealth, nor even 
goodness, have shielded from severe trial. Blanche was sure 
that her mother ought to have been happy, but she could not 
believe that she had been so. As she listened to the cottagers’ 
oft-told tales, she fancied that it was only a natural interest 
which made her listen so intently for all they could tell ; but, 
if she had been as careful an anatomist of her feelings as she 
was of her faults, she might have perceived that this longing 
desire to know more of the history of the countess’s daily life 
was almost always aroused after conversations with her father, 
which were now very frequent. 

It is the gift of a superior mind to bring out the latent powers 
of others ; and Lord Rutherford’s constant intercourse with his 
daughter had done more than the most unwearied study 
towards maturing her judgment, and enlarging her ideas upon 
all worldly subjects. Blanche had lived in reality months 
instead of weeks at the castle, and every day brought some 


THE earl’s daughter. 


55 


fresh ev-idence to the earl’s mind of her quick intellect and 
refined taste. He delighted in engaging her in an argument, 
and seeing the ease with which she would pursue her own train 
of thought, whilst fully comprehending his ; and the graceful 
candour with which, when once convinced of error, she yielded 
her point and begged for further instruction. He was more 
and more satisfied, more and more convinced that Mrs. Howard 
had educated her well. And Blanche ? Alas ! how little can 
we read of the secrets of the heart ! How selfish and blind are 
we, even in our love ! 

If Lord Rutherford had been asked whether he had succeeded 
in rendering his daughter happy, he would have answered, 
without a moment’s hesitation, perfectly. She had employ- 
ments, amusements, interests, luxuries, friends ; and, to crown 
the whole, himself : and though free from the petty conceit of 
an inferior intellect, which believes that it is all which it desires 
to be. Lord Rutherford could not but be conscious that the 
powers of entertainment which had excited the admiration of 
the first circles, both in England and on the continent, must be 
more than equal to the task of whiling away the leisure hours 
of a young girl, whose knowledge of the world w^ confined to 
the immediate neighbourhood of the place of her education. 
And he thought correctly. Blanche was amused, excited, inter- 
ested still — but the arrow had entered into her heart ; and 
when she left her father’s presence, her smiles too often 
vanished, whilst she sought the solitude of her own chamber, to 
grieve over the bitterness of her disappointment. 

It was then that she most thought of her mother. Had it 
been the same with her ? Had she also loved, and reverenced, 
and dreamt a dream of perfection ; and awoke to find it but 
delusion? Or had she, like the earl, been gifted with the 
highest of earthly gifts, while destitute of that “ pearl of great 
price,” which alone could be her ornament in Heaven ? This, 
Blanche could not think. All that she heard and saw — the 
letters, the favourite books, the kind acts which were so thank- 
fully remembered, showed plainly that the Countess of Ruther- 
ford had been in her inmost heart a Christian ; and then, how 
great must have been the pang at finding herself united to one 
whose heart was centred in the world ! Blanche thought upon 
the subject till it haunted her as a spectral form, mixing with 
her imaginations by day and night ; and, if forgotten for a 
time, recalled by some accidental occurrence as painfully as if 
it had never passed away. Yet the fear could not be named, — 


56 


THE earl’s U G H T E R . 


certainly not to Eleanor, and scarcely even to Mrs. Howard, who 
had been much separated from the Countess both before and 
after her marriage, and had never hinted a doubt of her happi- 
ness. The mention of it would have involved an acknowledg- 
ment of disaj)pointment in her father, which Blanche shrank 
from allowing to herself, and could not have borne to embody in 
words ; though she often reproached herself for a want of 
sincerity in withholding the confidence which she knew was 
expected. There was one person, indeed, from whom much 
might be learnt ; but how was the inquiry to be made ? Mrs. 
Wentworth, she had reason to believe, knew all the circum- 
stances of her mother’s history ; but Blanche had already asked 
all the questions which she dared, and hacb learnt the principal 
events, and many additional traits of habit and character ; and 
Mrs. Wentworth was not a person from whom to seek further 
confidence. There was a great deal of sincerity, but no open- 
ness in her disposition : she seldom encouraged conversation, 
and when she did, it was confined to facts, — serious and 
important, and often placed in a new and striking light, — but 
still merely facts. Her own feelings she left to be discovered 
by inference ; and Blanche, accustomed to Mrs. Howard’s 
warmth of expression, felt chilled even by her kindness, and 
would frequently have preferred silence to a succession of details, 
which might have aroused the intensest interest, but for the 
cold way in which they were narrated. There was one hope, 
however, still to rest upon ; Lady Charlton was described by 
every one to be a most charming person, something like the 
countess in appearance, and with a manner so winning that no 
one could withstand it. Even Mrs. Wentworth had once been 
roused into a momentary enthusiasm when speaking of her 
qualifications as an agreeable companion, and Blanche already 
clung to the idea, that in her aunt she might find a friend who 
would throw light upon the subject which distressed her mind, 
without requiring her to state the fears which she would 
willingly have hidden from her own heart. 


CHAPTER X. 

Lord Rutherford perceived, with great satisfaction, the 
deasure with which Blanche looked forward to her aunt’s visit, 
le had resolved that his sister-in-law should be surprised and 


THE earl’s daughter. 


57 


charmed by his daughter’s elegance and beauty ; and he well 
knew the effect which Blanche’s simple, eager cordiality would 
have upon one who had so long been accustomed to the spark- 
ling frigidity of the fashionable world. Blanche was always 
courteous, always attentive ; but, when her feelings were 
interested, she was attractive far beyond any person whom he 
had ever seen. He remained at home the whole of the day on 
which Lady Charlton was expected, under the pretence — 
perhaps even the belief — that it would be a great mark of 
neglect if he were to run the least risk of not being ready to 
receive his guests. “ Sir Hugh was so unwell, and they had 
not met since they parted last year in Italy ; and Blanche 
woifld feel awkward in probably having to receive her cousins 
alone. True, they could not possibly arrive before five o’clock, 
and he had an engagement, at two, in a neighbouring village ; 
but there might be some mistake ; they might come before, — 
at any rate it was safe, and he would send an excuse and then 
the earl’s eye wandered to Blanche, who was seated at her 
drawing-frame, and he begged her to give him one air upon the 
harp — his favourite. Blanclie’s face lit up with a smile of 
pleasure, — and the earl felt the time only too short, as he leant 
back upon the sofa, his eye delighting in his child’s grace, and 
his ear drinking in the sweet sounds which her talent was 
producing. It wfis perfect human enjoyment ; for at that 
moment no memories awoke to mar it. 

“We will walk down the carriage drive, if you like it, my 
love,” he said, as the timepiece struck the quarter before five ; 
“ these spare minutes are always very tedious.” 

Blanche disappeared as soon as the suggestion was made ; 
her father’s marked attention to her wishes had made her scru- 
pulously mindful of his. Lord Rutherford’s careful inspection 
when she returned, was not perceived ; but it was bestowed 
with the wish to decide whether she would be less likely to 
appear to advantage in her walking than in her morning dress. 
Lady Charlton’s eye was fastidiously correct in dress, and it was 
possible that she might be struck by some deficiency of which 
Blanche was unconscious. But the straw bonnet and shawl 
disarmed criticism, and Lord Rutherford smiled at his own 
doubts. The afternoon was very still, but the atmosphere was 
clear, and the sky blue and cloudless. Blanche felt the soften- 
ing, soothing influence of nature’s purity and beauty ; and the 
over interest, and even agitation, which she had experienced in 

3 * 


58 


THE earl’s daughter. 


the expectation of the meeting were calmed. But she was 
silent, and so was the earl. 

“ We shall see them from this point,” he said, at length, as 
he led his daughter to a bench upon the summit of a steep knoll. 
“ It was an old boyish habit of mine, to stand here and watch 
for arrivals.” 

Blanche looked towards the winding road which passed over 
the village green. “ There is something, — a carriage ; yes, a 
carriage, I am sure. Don’t you see it, papa ?” 

“ Eyes of sixteen against eyes of fifty, Blanche,” said the earl, 
smiling. “ Are you certain that you don’t hear the rumbling 
of the wheels ?” 

“ Oh ! papa, you won’t believe ; but I do see it, though. It 
is coming nearer ; it has just j)assed the first turning, and it is 
very quick too. There must be four horses, so it must be them.” 

“ Well, then, we will retmm ; but look once more : are you 
sure ?” 

“ Yes, quite ; it is by the blacksmith’s shop. I can see the 
horses now distinctly.” 

Lord Rutherford quickened his pace towards the house. He 
looked thoughtful and uneasy. 

They stood upon the steps together. The earl leant moodily 
against the castle wall ; he saw no external objects. His eye 
was turned inwards to his own heart, and the images of the 
years that were passed away. He started, however, as the sound 
of wheels became more distinct ; and, when the leaders 
appeared on the crest of the hill, he drew Blanche forward to 
meet the carriage. Blanche thought that it w^as the impulse 
of hospitality and afiection ; but it was merely restlessness : he 
felt himself compelled to move. 

Lady Charlton was the first to perceive them, and the car- 
riage was instantly stopped. 

“ Kind ! — like yourself, always,” was her salutation, as she ex- 
tended her hand, which the earl took with something of trembling 
cordiality. “ And my dear Blanche too ! but I must walk.” 

The carriage-door was opened, and Lady Charlton alighted. 

“We are not in public,” she said, as she kissed Blanche’s 
forehead, and again gave her hand to the earl. 

Blanche’s smile was very sweet, and her few words — few 
from repressed feeling, — were all that her aunt could desire. 

“ You don’t want introductions,” continued Lady Charlton. 
“ Maude, Adelaide ; you know your cousin, of course.” 


% 


THE earl’s daughter. 59 

There was another warm greeting, and Blanche was recover- 
ing her fnomentary shyness and agitation. She remained at 
the carriage-door, bending forwards and speaking eagerly, 
whilst her eye sparkled with pleasure, and a bright colour 
flushed her usually pale cheek. Lady Charlton watched her 
for a few moments, and the seemingly involuntary exclamation 
escaped her, — “Yes, she is just what I could have imagined; 
I must have known her in any place.” 

The earl turned away. 

“ Don’t. distress yourself, my dear,” continued Lady Charlton, 
as Blanche was about to address some person, or apparently 
thing, which bore a resemblance rather to a bundle of shawls 
than a human being. “ Poor Sir Hugh ! he is miserably 
tired — half dead with opiates ; — he has been suffering fear- 
fully the last week, but he would come ; he will be himself 
by-and-by : they had better drive on,” and the carriage pro- 
ceeded. 

Blanche walked leisurely to the castle with her father and 
aunt. She was confused; there had scarcely been time to 
recognise any one, but the general impression was agreeable. 
Lady Charlton was undoubtedly an elegant, distinguished look- 
ing person ; her voice too was musical, and her manner very 
winning from its ease and kindness. And her cousins — she 
thought she knew them apart ; one had a sallow complexion 
and light hair, a plain but very clever face, rather severe and 
grave in its expression — that must be Maude, the invalid : and 
the other was a brunette, with dark hair, braided ; dressed 
handsomely and carefully, lively in manner, and altogether 
pleasing from youth and gaiety, and the quickness of a pair of 
very bright eyes, rather than from any regular beauty. The earl 
said little ; but Lady Charlton had words upon every subject at 
command. No one could be in the least restrained with her. 
Even in those few minutes, she seemed to take exactly that 
position which Blanche had felt must be filled before she could 
be quite at ease with her father. Lady Charlton was affection- 
ate and interested, but she was not timid. Blanche could 
scarcely understand the boldness with which she rallied the 
earl upon his long absence, his present love of seclusion ; and 
prophesied that he was yet to prove himself as distinguished a 
person in England as he had been abroad. Lord Rutherford 
was at first grave, but not annoyed ; and, after a few minutes, 
he appeared to have caught himself something of Lady Charl- 
ton’s vivacity, and answered her remarks in a tone almost aa 


I 


60 THE earl’s daughter. 

full of cheerfulness as her own. It was a new phase of charac- 
ter which Blanche had not before perceived. 

“ And Sir Hugh has been very ill, then,” said Lord Ruther- 
ford, as he saw the carriage stop at the castle, and two servants 
assist in helping a seemingly decrepit old man to alight. 

“Yes,” and Lady Charlton sighed ; “it is very sad ; one can 
never be prepared for these attacks. He was at a great dinner 
only a fortnight ago, and quite the life of the party ; made a 
speech, and proposed toasts, and kept up the whole thing till 
alter twelve o’clock ; was quite himself, in fact : and now, you 
see what he is.” ' 

“ I suppose the dinner was the root of the evil,” observed the 
earl. 

“ Well ! yes ; I suppose it might have been so : but the 
complaint is constitutional, hereditary. Blanche, my dear, you 
may think yourself happy in being descended from another 
family. The Evelyns never were a gouty race.” 

“ I should hope not,” said the earl, quietly. 

Lady Charlton laughed. “Now, my dear Rutherford, that 
is one of your old exclusive fancies. I really flattered myself 
that fifteen years’ experience of continental liberalism would 
have done something towards destroying them ; but you are 
just the same, I see : just the same spirit of the Spanish hidalgo 
in you — ‘ This comes of walking on the earth.’ ” 

“ And the Spanish hidalgo was right,” said Blanche, archly. 

Lady Charlton smiled, and answered, “ Quite right, my dear ; 
but I don’t know how it is — the older one grows, the less in- 
clined one is to hang, hke Mahomet’s coffin, between heaven 
and earth : there is something very solitary and uncongenial in 
the position ; and therefore, since one cannot yet have the 
higher, I am willing to rest satisfied with the lower, and to be 
very happy upon earth, in spite of the Spanish hidalgo.” 

“ And the gout,” said Lord Rutherford. “ Sir Hugh, I sus- 
pect, would tell a different tale.” 

“ Oh ! poor Sir Hugh ! you will see him very unlike himself, 
Blanche ; or rather you will not see him at all. He and Pear- 
son go their own way when he is in this state. A firet-rate ser- 
vant Pearson is ; and such a nurse !” 

By this time they had reached the castle. As they entered 
it, Blanche again repeated her welcome to her aunt, and Lady 
Charlton’s manner in an instant changed. She was no longer 
the cheerful, amusing woman of the world ; but the thoughtful, 
warm-hearted, sympathizing friend. She took Blanche’s hand 


f 


61 


THE earl’s daughter. 

in both hgrs, and thanked her with a warmth of affection which 
Blanche fully appreciated. Dr. Wentworth’s description recurred 
to her mind. Fascinating ! — Yes, that was the right word. 

Blanche was alone till nearly dinner-time. Her cousins were 
engaged in dressing for dinner, or«perhaps in resting after their 
journey. She did not see anything of them after showing them 
to their rooms. Her aunt she supposed was with Sir Hugh ; her 
father, she knew, had business to transact. The solitude was 
very • precious to her ; it gave her leisure for thought, for 
examining her own impressions. Blanche trusted very much to 
first impressions, for as yet she had never known deception. All 
seemed bright and hopeful — not from any particular cause that 
she could fix upon — the sensation of relief and satisfaction was 
indefinable ; the castle was the castle still — ^her own position was 
the same — her one great grief was as real as it had ever been ; 
but her heart was lighter. 

The earl was waiting for her as she left her room. He had 
come on purpose to take her himself to the drawing-room, that 
she might not be shy ; so he said : but his survey of Blanche’s 
dress and general appearance betrayed his true motive. A smile 
of intense pleasure passed over his face as he looked at her : 
the simple white dress was the symbol of the pure, spotless 
mind. 


CHAPTER XI. 

“ Eleanor,” said Mr. Wentworth to his sister, as he entered 
the school-room the day after the arrival of Lady Charlton at the 
castle, “ you must leave those never-ending lessons, and come 
out ; I want you.” 

“ I beg your pardon, Charles, you must wait : if you have 
returned to stay here for several months, you must learn to 
amuse yourself.” 

“ More easily said than done,” was the reply ; and the young 
man threw himself into the first arm-chair which presented itself, 
and continued : “ Four months ! it is a terribly long time. 
What on earth shall I do with myself?” 

“ Read,” replied Eleanor, still occupying herself with an exer- 
cise which she was correcting. 

“ Read ! my dear Eleanor,” rephed her brother, with a sigh 


62 THE earl’s daughter. 

of languid weariness. “ But I have read ; I do read. It is 
nothing else but reading from morning till night.'’ 

“ But it will only last a little longer,” said Eleanor, soothingly ; 
“ and then ” 

“ And then comes ordination,” added Charles. 

There was an accent of bitterness in his voice. Eleanor 
looked up, and put her finger to her lips, as she glanced at her 
little sister. 

“ Susan, child, run into the garden, and find Brown,” 
exclaimed Charles impatiently. “ Tell him he must have my 
horse ready for me by three o’clock.” 

Susan ran away, only too glad of the excuse to change her 
employment. 

“You forget Susan’s age,” said Eleanor, in a reproachful tone, 
when she found herself alone with her brother. 

“ Yes, I did at the moment ; but there would have been no 
harm done.” 

“ Only that she is very likely to repeat to papa all that you 
say to me, and you would not like that.” 

“ I don’t know ; he must hear it some day or other.” 

“ Oh ! no, Charles : you intend to change your views, and 
look at the matter differently.” 

“ My dear Eleanor,” was the answer, spoken coolly and 
rather satirically, “ it is exceedingly easy for you to talk ; but, 
begging your pardon, you know nothing whatever of the subject. 
Ordained I must be — I intend to be ; but not to be my father’s 
curate ; not to vegetate upon a hundred a year in a country 
village, with no one but my own family to speak to. I was 
not born for such a life, and I can never endure it.” 

“ Would you not be just as badly off in any other place ?” 
inquired Eleanor. “ You will have the castle, and the society 
there, for a change.” 

“ Lord Rutherford and Lady Blanche ?” said Charles, doubt- 
fully. 

“ Yes ; and I think you will scarcely require more. You will 
go far before you meet any one the equal of Blanche, at least.” 

“ Equal ! no ; to watch her is like looking up at a star ; but 
confess, Eleanor, notwithstanding all your romance, it is awfully 
out of one’s reach.” 

“ Yet Blanche is the most warm-hearted, enthusiastic, 
poetical person imaginable,” exclaimed Eleanor. 

“ Very likely ; you young ladies are extremely warm-hearted 
to each other, and no doubt very poetical in your private 


THE earl’s daughter. 


63 


journals ; but that does not help us poor men. Lady Blanche 
makes a most lovely picture ; but pictures are not society.” 

“ Then you will have others besides Blanche,” continued 
Eleanor. “ Lady Charlton, and” — 

“ The Charltons ? Are they here ? When did they come ? 
You never told me anything about them.” 

Mr. Wentworth grew evidently excited at the information. 

Eleanor could not forbear laughing. “ Why, my dear 
Charles, I was not quite prepared for such a burst. They are 
here — Lady Charlton and Sir Hugh.” 

“ And Adelaide ?” interrupted Charles. 

“ Christian names !” exclaimed Eleanor. “ Really, Charles, 
that is rather surprising. Do papa and mamma know of this 
great intimacy ?” 

“ My dear Eleanor, you are a mere baby. Christian names 
are nothing at all ; it entirely depends upon the people. I 
should never think of calling Lady Blanche Evelyn, Blanche.” 

“No, because she is Lady Blanche?” 

“ But if she were Miss, I could not. Don’t you understand ? 
Some persons are to be regarded at a distance. They never 
give one the opportunity of approaching nearer ; they are never 
olf their guard.” 

“Which, I presume, then, that the Miss Charltons are,” 
observed Eleanor, in a tone of amusement. 

“ They are very quick — very agreeable. I should not exactly 
choose to see you like them ; but they will be great acquisitions. 
When I say them, however, I really only mean Adelaide. The 
other is clever enough — a very phoenix in learning and accom- 
plishments ; but she is anything but agreeable, if you happen to 
take her in the wrong mood.” 

“ She is an invalid, I believe,” said Eleanor. 

“ Yes, she thinks herself so, and she looks hideously ugly ; 
people say, from ill health. It was the fashion abroad, to ad- 
mire her forehead and eyes, and call them intellectual ; but I 
never could get over the complexion.” 

“ I don’t see that she is likely to be much of an acquisition,” 
continued Eleanor. 

“ Yes ; in her way, she will be ; she plays marvellously, and 
sings ! I never heard any amateur voice in the least equal to 
hers. Upon the whole, I am immensely glad they are here.” 

“ I must ask you to go, now,” said Eleanor, gravely. “ Susan 
must come to her lessons ; don’t you hear her in the passage ?” 

“ Run away, child, we are not ready for you yet,” exclaimed 


64 


THE earl’s daughter. 


Charles, rising from his chair with some effort ; and going to the 
door, in spite of his sister’s evident annoyance, he sent Susan on 
another message, and then returning said, “ These four months ! 
— they will be a great trial.” 

“ I should not find them so if I were in your place,” observed 
Eleanor, whilst the colour mounted to her cheeks. “ I should 
be glad to be with you anywhere, especially at home.” 

Charles seemed a little surprised at her manner. “ I don’t 
understand,” he replied. “ Of course, I am glad to be with you ; 
but just think for a minute and his voice became quite ener- 
getic ; “ I have passed through the university, and made rather 
a noise there ; since then I have been travelling for two years, 
seeing most enchanting places, enjoying first-rate society — and 
now I am told that I am to sit down for life — it is the life which 
frightens me ! — in an old country parsonage, with not a single 
person to speak to beyond my own family, and the chance 
visitors at Rutherford Castle. Doubtless, there are pereons for 
whom such prospects might do -very well ; good, quiet, hum- 
drum men, who, exactly the reverse of Charles the Second, may 
be warranted never to do a foolish thing, and never say a wise 
one ; — but I am not one of them. If my father wishes me to 
do anything he must give me a sphere ; he ought to do so ; for 
I have never caused him any trouble. I have never been wild 
or extravagant ; and yet he looks as grave as if I were a complete 
scapegrace.” 

“The notion of your ordination makes him do that,” said 
Eleanor. 

“ And whose fault is the ordination ?” exclaimed Mr. Went- 
worth. “ He has dinned into my ears, ever since I was a baby 
in arms, that I was to be a clergyman, and what possible right 
has he to find fault with me now because I intend to be one ?” 

“ Papa looks at the profession more seriously than you do,” 
observed Eleanor. 

“ Serious ; it is serious enough, no one doubts that ; but all 
the more reason why I should have a little life and enjoyment 
Deforehand.” 

“ Papa thinks that^is not the right sort of preparation,” said 
Eleanor, in a tone of mild suggestion, rather than of reproof.- 

“ I don’t mean it as preparation — and yet call it so, if you 
will. When I am ordained, things will be different. I shall be 
a clergyman ; and I shall conduct myself like one. My father 
cannot suppose I mean to disgrace myself by being a vulgar, 
fox-hunting, drinking, neghgent, country parson.” 


THE earl’s DAUGHTER. 65 

“ The race is happily becoming extinct,” said Eleanor ; “ but 
my father will not be satisfied with your merely escaping dis- 
grace.” 

“ He wishes to see me honoured ; and he shall do so. Once 
let me have the opportunity ; place me in London ; give me, as 
I said before, a sphere ; and, before he dies, he shall see me a 
bishop.” 

Eleanor shook her head, and said more courageously, “ That 
is not the tone to please papa, Charles. He does not under- 
stand it. He does not know what it is to wish to be a bishop.” 

“ Neither do I wish it, Eleanor ; if I could be anything else. 
But I am all but shut out from every other profession. I am 
not educated, and not inclined for the army ; I am not at all 
fitted for a physician ; and utterly without interest at the bar — 
if I could bring myself to submit to the drudgery of studying for 
it. I know I must take orders ; and all I ask is, that my hither 
should try to place me where my talents — for you know, Eleanor, 
it is impossible to deny that I have some talents,” and Mr. 
Wentworth laughed faintly, and settling his cravat, glanced at 
himself in the looking-glass — “ should have scope.” 

Eleanor’s reply showed an evident wish to put an end to a dis- 
agreeable subject. She was quite sure, she said, that her father 
would do everything in his power to promote her brother’s 
views, by-and-bye ; but that she could not herself see what steps 
were to be taken at once. 

“ One, very simple,” exclaimed Charles, eagerly. “ Let him 
consent that I should have a curacy in London ; or, at least, that 
I should try for one ; instead of insisting upon my drudging on 
a weary existence here, with nothing to rouse energy.” 

“ You had better resign youi-self, my dear Charles,” and 
Eleanor tried to laugh. “ When papa once has made a deci- 
sion, he is very resolute.” 

“ And he will find that his son can be resolute too,” exclaimed 
Mr. Wentworth. “ I have made up my mind what I will do ; I 
will be off — off to Australia ; no power on earth shall stop me, 
if I am thwarted.” 

“ You, in Australia ! a settler !” and Eleanor laughed : “ no, 
papa feels he is perfectly safe there. But, my dear Charles, there 
is a much surer way of bringing him round to look at things in 
your own way. Stay here quietly, and do as he wishes ; study, 
and visit the poor people, and then he will be satisfied ; and will 
see himself, by degrees, that you are not likely to gain any harm 
by ultimately settling in London. You must own,” she added, 


66 


THE earl’s daughter. 


with some hesitation, “ that papa’s anxiety is natural enough, 
considering the way you talk.” 

“ But I don’t talk so to him,” exclaimed Mr. Wentworth. 
“ Neither he nor my mother knows half I really feel.” 

“ Poor mamma !” said Eleanor, speaking seriously, yet not 
without some satisfaction at her brother’s implied confidence in 
herself ; “ with her high views, her very exalted notions of a 
clergyman’s office, I certainly should not like her to hear you 
rattle on in this random way. 1 don’t approve of it, you know, 
myself ; only I am sure you don’t mean it.” 

“I do mean it, though,” exclaimed Charles, petulantly; 
“ and what is more, I am convinced that there are not half a 
dozen men in England who would not say precisely the same. 
Of course, I shall do my duty ; but it must be in the right 
place — not here.” 

“ Not even with Lady Charlton and her family, at the 
castle ?” said Eleanor, pointedly. 

“ Oh ! nonsense, they would make a difference ; but it would 
only be for a time ; they can’t stay.” 

“ Blanche expects them for a very long visit,” replied Eleanor. 

“Lord Rutherford and Adelaide Charlton !” said Charles, 
musingly. “ A very incongruous mixture. Adelaide’s high 
spirits will never stand the castle proprieties.” 

“ Charles, dear ; promise me one thing, please,” said Eleanor, 
laying her hand upon his arm. “ Don’t speak of Miss Charlton 
in that way before mamma ; it is just the sort of thing to annoy 
her.” 

Mr. Wentworth laughed. “ My dear Eleanor, you really are 
more childish than I imagined ; but anything you like ; oidy, 
when you know Adelaide, you will see that it is impossible to 
call her anything else. And, remember, if I am to stay here 
and be well behaved, I must have full leave to go to the castle 
as often as I choose.” 

“Leave from me as much as you wish,” replied Eleanor; 
“ if you will only be cautious. I could not bear you to vex 
mamma, and she is rather suspicious of you already.” 

Mr. Wentworth put on an air of mock gravity ; and folding 
his hands, and casting his eyes to the ground, promised to be 
as demure as Susan, if only his sister would help to provide 
him with amusement. “ And suggest to my father that I shall 
not be fitted for his curate,” were his last words, as he went out 
of the room, leaving Eleanor in a state of mind by no means to 
be envied. 


THE earl’s daughter. 


67 


He was scarcely gone, when Mrs. Wentworth came through 
the garden to the school-room window. She held a note in 
her hand, which she put into Eleanor’s silently, and then stood 
by apparently engaged in twisting the straggling tendrils of the 
clematis which darkened the apartment. Eleanor returned the 
note with thanks ; her colour was heightened, and her eyes 
sparkled with pleasure. “ Shall I write an answer, mamma ; 
or will you ?” 

Mrs. Wentworth paused for a moment before she said, in a 
tone of annoyance, “ I was afraid it would be so. I was sure 
you would be vexed, my love.” 

“ Vexed ! dear mamma.” 

“ Yes. It is nothing very grievous ; but your father and I 
think it best to decline. He wished me not to show you the 
invitation ; but I could not agree, I have too much confidence 
in your good sense, and your love for me.” 

“ Oh, mamma ! the first day ! and an express invitation 
to us all ; and Blanche so extremely urgent !” 

“ The very reason, my love, why it may be more desirable 
to decline.” Eleanor bit her lip, and made no reply. 

“ You will understand some of our objections,” continued 
Mrs. V^ent worth. “ As an acquaintance begins, so it may be 
supposed to continue. We do not wish to be dining at the 
castle perpetually, now.” 

“Because of Lady Charlton and her party, I suppose.” 
replied Eleanor, trying to be good-humoured. “ But, dear 
mamma, she is a very charniing person.” 

“ I don’t know what she is,” was Mrs. Wentworth’s reply, 
spoken more quickly than was her wont : “ only you will be 
contented at home, my child.” 

“ Contented with you, mamma ? oh ! yes, always ; but ” — 

“ But you must try and think as I think ; try, and not 
dream of the castle by night and by day.” Eleanor smiled, 
though without cheerfulness. “ Consider what it would be to 
me,” continued Mrs. Wentworth, “to see you restless and 
excited ; or to find you longing for different society, and know 
that you were neglecting your own simple duties.” 

“ I should never neglect my duties by being with Blanche,” 
exclaimed Eleanor eagerly ; “ she would always keep me right.” 

“ My love, indeed you are mistaken. Lady Blanche is a very 
sweet girl, most amiable and winning; but, when you are 
together, her spirit cannot be the ruling one.” 

Eleanor’s head was raised proudly, as she replied, “ It should 


68 


THE earl’s daughter. 


be, if I were Blanche. Rank, wealth, beauty, talent ! Mamma, 
Blanche ought to rule a kingdom.” 

“ Let her learn to rule the kingdom of her own heart,” 
replied Mrs. Wentworth ; “ that will be the most needful 
lesson. Poor child ! hers is a position of great temptation.” 

“ Mamma,” said Eleanor thoughtfully, “ you might help her.” 

Mrs. Wentworth paused. “I might possibly, if circum- 
stances were different; if the opportunity should occur; but 
your affection, I think, a little deceives you, Eleanor. Lady 
Blanche is not likely to give me the opportunity ; she is too gentle 
and yielding to profit % the sort of help I should give. She 
would require something less severe. Mrs. Howard is more 
likely to be of use to her than I am.” - 

“ Mrs. Howard is so far ofiP,” replied Eleanor, 

“Yes; but they can write. Though, of course, my love,” 
continued Mrs. Wentworth, assuming a tone of greater uncon- 
straint, “ I do not mean that I would not do everything for her 
that I possibly could ; only there are some dispositions so easily 
moulded that they take impressions from everything ; and, if it 
should be so with Lady Blanche, you will find that the daily 
life at the castle with her relations will really form her character. 
And, besides,” and Mrs. Wentworth’s voice sank, as it some- 
times did, into a tone so low that it scarcely seemed intended 
for conversation, “there are difierent atmospheres, different 
circles — the castle and the rectory — no, never again.” 

Eleanor made no comment upon this speech ; yet the thought 
crossed her mind, with wonder, why, if the circles were so 
different, and the atmospheres so uncongenial, she should have 
been allowed to grow up from childhood in unrestrained inti- 
macy ^\dth Blanche. 

“ And you will be satisfied then, my dear, not to dine at the 
castle to-day,” said Mrs. Wentworth in her natural manner; 
“ we have an engagement which will do very well as an excuse 
for us all. Your father talked this morning, of asking Mr. 
Moulton, of Enfield, to stay ; as he is going to ride with him 
to see the workhouse ; and though we might leave them at 
home, it will be better not.” 

Eleanor sighed at the prospect of exchanging a cheerful 
evening at the castle for the society of an elderly gentleman, 
whose only interest in life seemed to be the faults of the poor- 
laws. The sigh was not utterly selfish ; it was as much for her 
brother as herself ; and she ventured to add a petition for him ; 
but Mrs. Wentworth negatived the idea instantly. 


THE earl’s daughter. 


69 


Charles ! oh dear ! no. He was much too great a stranger 
to go by himself ; he would be quite a burden to Lord Ruther- 
ford; and, moreover” — but this time Mrs. Wentworth’s 
thoughts were not betrayed by an undertone; and Eleanor 
could only conjecture that the “ moreover” might have some 
reference to Miss Charlton. She was not forbidden, however, to 
go to the castle in the morning — that was some satisfaction ; 
and she might see Blanche ; she might just have a glimpse of 
Adelaide Charlton ; and, without hesitation, she expressed her 
intention to her mother. 

They had not met the preceding day, she said ; and Blanche 
would think it unkind if she were not to go near her. 

“ Lady Blanche wdll call upon you, my dear, if she is anx- 
ious about it,” said Mrs. Wentworth, quietly and coldly. 

Eleanor changed colour. “ Anxious about it, dear mamma ; 
what can you mean ?” 

“Nothing, my dear; only I think you might as well leave 
the castle for to-day.” ♦ 

A torrent of eager words seemed about to rush forth, for 
Eleanor’s eyes flashed with anger and vexation. Mrs. Went- 
worth stopped her before the first word was spoken. “My 
love, you have trusted me always ; do you doubt now that I 
would make you happy in your own way if it were right ?” 

The haughty spirit was subdued in an instant, and Eleanor’s 
arm was- thrown round her mother’s neck. 

“ Mamma, you are always right ; yet you cannot love Blanche 
as I do.” 

“I loved her mother,” was Mrs. Wentworth’s calm reply; 
ana as she walked slowly away, Eleanor threw herself upon a 
chair, and burst into tears. 


CHAPTER XII. 

“ Here, Pearson ! stop a minute, can’t you ? What in the 
world are you going away for. Idiot ?” growled Sir Hugh Charl- 
ton, helplessly stretching out his hand to reach a small hand- 
bell, which had unfortunately been placed just beyond his 
reach. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir ; very sorry, quite forgot,” muttered 
the stout, obsequious, black-haired, black-whiskered, and most 
shrewd-looking individual, whose character was constantly sum- 


Vo THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 

med-iip by Lady Charlton, in the emphatic description of “the 
best creature in the world.” 

“ The medicine, the drops ! where are they ? why don’t you 
'fetch them ?” continued Sir Hugh, as Pearson remained by his 
side, pretending to adjust the pillows at his head, and eyeing 
with great apparent solicitude the arrangements of the gouty 
stool which supported his master’s feet. Pearson did not say, 
that he had been on the point of departure when he was 
brought back ; he placed the hand-bell more conveniently than 
before, gave an additional touch to the pillows, brought the 
newspaper within reach, and then, as he was leaving the room, 
remarked, that the earl had invited some friends to dinner, so 
he had been told by Mr. Hilyard, the butler. 

“ People to dinner, did you say ? Here, Pearson, where are 
you going ? why, in the name of wonder, don’t you speak out ?” 

“Dr. Wentworth’s family from the rectory are coming, so 
Mr. Hilyard informed me. Sir Hugh ; but, perhaps, you would 
wish me to inquire. When you have taken the medicine, if I 
might be allowed, I would ask.” Pearson returned almost in 
an instant. The drops were properly measured and adminis- 
tered, and Sir Hugh’s next order was, not to fidget about the 
room like a mouse, but to go and hear who was coming ; an 
order fully expected by the ingenious Pearson, who immediately 
departed to gossip, for at least a quarter of an hour, in the 
housekeeper’s room. 

He was gone, but Sir Hugh murmured still, “ Wentworths ! 
who’ were the Wentworths ? People he had never heard of! 
Wentworth I” He stopped and rubbed his chin, and thought, 
and muttered again, “ Wentworth 1 yes, he did know the name, 
he remembered it. That intolerable fool, Pearson, where was 
he gone ? he knew every one. Heaps of Wentworth’s there 
were everywhere — England — France — Italy.” He seized the 
hand beh, but, without ringing it, called for Pearson at the 
highest pitch of his voice. 

The call was answered by Lady Charlton. “ My dear Sir 
Hugh, such a noise ! it quite frightens one.” 

“ Well 1 madam, and I intended it should. Here am I — 
Pearson gone — ^you away — left by my daughters — it is too 

“ Oh ! but, my dear Sir Hugh, you must not be exacting. 
Poor children 1 they are only having a little music with 
Blanche.” 

“ No ; not with me,” said a very sweet voice ; and Blanche, 


/ 


THE earl’s daughter. 

who had just entered the room, came up to Sir Hugh’s chair. 
“ You know, aunt Charlton, you promised I should be of 
use. Can I do anything for Sir Hugh ? Might I not sit a 
little while with him ?” 

“ Oh ! my dear Blanche, this is too good of you,” and Sir 
Hugh grew calm directly. “ Really you must excuse me — a 
gouty man must make a great many apologies ; but that fool 
— my man, I mean, — a very' good servant — a capital servant, 
Pearson — but forgetful. Lady Charlton, pray place a chair ; it 
distresses me quite.” Blanche brought a chair for herself, and 
placed it by Sir Hugh ; her work-basket was in her hand, and 
again she hoped that she was not intruding. 

Lady Charlton smiled, and said, “ Sir Hugh would be only 
too happy ; and, for herself, she had letters to write, very 
important ones; but Blanche must not fatigue herself. You 
can read, if you like it, my love, for a little while. Sir Hugh 
is a great reader, and a writer too sometimes, only I shall be in 
disgrace if I mention it.” She looked meaningly at Sir Hugh. 

“ My dear Lady Charlton — Frances — you are really too bad. 
Blanche will be shocked ; it is nothing ; nothing at all, I assure 
you. Just a pamphlet, nothing at all to speak of. There is 
one — Frances, my dear — on the side table ; I think you will 
find one. But, never mind ; ” seeing that Lady Charlton cast 
an unsearching and unseeing eye round the room. “Never 
mind, Pearson will find it. I can ring.” 

“ Pearson is going to dinner,” replied Lady Charlton, rather 
quickly, “ but Blanche, I dare say, will read to you. Let me 
see, that book on geology T think it was you began. My dear 
Blanche, I really am ashamed of myself for allowing you to 
have such a task. I dare say, if the truth were told, you know 
no more of the ‘ ologies ’ than I do ; but you will learn some- 
thing — names, at least. I quite marvel at myself for not being 
wiser, considering Sir Hugh’s tastes. We had not very much 
science in Italy ; and a great drawback it was for him. Good- 
b’ye, my love. Maude and Ady will be in despair when they 
hear you are not coming ^ck.” 

“ As much in despair as I shall be in delight,” said Sir Hugh, 
twisting his sallow and worn features into what he believed to 
be an irresistible smile. 

- “ But I shall have mercy upon you, Blanche,” said Lady 

Charlton, returning to look into the room again. “ Remember 
we are to have a riding party this afternoon ; and your friends, 
the Wentworths, I hear, are to dine with us.” 


12 


THE earl’s daughter. 


Lady Charlton was gone before she heard, or at least, before 
she appeared to hear Sir Hugh’s impatient exclamation of 
“ Wentworth ! that was the very thing ! that fool Pearson ! 
why did he not come back ? Who are the Wentworths ? ” 

“ Friends of ours at the rectory,” said Blanche ; and her 
voice acted with a magical effect upon the irritable Sir Hugh, 
who immediately composed himself to the semblance of a 
deferential listener. “ Eleanor Wentworth and I were edu- 
cated together,” continued Blanche. “ She is my very great 
friend.” 

“ Ah, yes, very true — very nice ; no doubt she is charming. 
But I thought — you must excuse a little impatience, my dear, 
the gout is trying, especially trying, — for a man of active habits, 
in the prime of life. I spoke rather eagerly just now ; but I 
thought I remembered the name of Wentworth abroad.” 

“It might have been Dr. Wentworth’s son ; he has been tra- 
velling,” said Blanche. 

Sir Hugh put his finger to his lip, and presently, with 'a sud- 
den start of recollection, exclaimed ; — 

“ Yes, I have it. I remember. Pearson knows ; — idiot ! ” 
and the voice sank again into an angry growl, “ what a time he 
is at dinner ! ” 

Before Blanche could answer, a furious peal summoned 
Pearson from his repast. Blanche could scarcely help smiling 
at the insinuating tone of the servant, when compared with the 
gesticulation of the master. Sir Hugh burst forth without 
preparation, requiring Pearson to recollect all he had ever 
heard or known of any one of the name of Wentworth ; and 
Pearson, with the utmost composure, began a quiet, and rather 
interesting account of Sir Hugh’s first acquaintance with Mr. 
Wentworth ; how they had met in Italy, and he believed Sir 
Hugh had told him that Lady Charlton had been acquainted 
with his family ; and, no doubt, Sir Hugh would recollect him 
perfectly — a tall gentleman, very handsome ; he used to sing 
with Miss Adelaide : and, as Pearson glanced doubtingly at Sir 
Hugh, and saw a pleased smile on his face, he ventured to add, 
“ People had remarked — at least he had heard it said — how 
well Mr. Wentworth and Miss Adelaide danced.” 

“ Yes, yes, I know. You may go now ; you won’t be wanted 
yet. Lady Blanche will do me the honour of sitting with me. 
Go ; can’t you ? ” and Pearson . hastened to escape Sir Hugh’s 
lightning glance. “ Such gossips these people are, my dear,” 
continued Sir Hugh in his mildest voice. “ Such intolerable 


THE earl’s daughter. 


73 


gossips ! One would think I was an old man with no memory ; 
telling me all those facts ! Of course, I recollect ! Mr. Went- 
worth was a handsome young man, certainly ; he danced 
attendance upon Adelaide. Lady Charlton grew frightened; 
but it was all nonsense ; Adelaide is a great deal too sensible — 
a shrewd girl you will find out — not equal to Maude. Maude 
is a genius, plays, sings, draws — there was a copy of hers, of a 
Guido, as good as the original. I should not have known the 
difference ; and I am a very good judge, as good as the earl I 
flatter myself ; and he has the reputation of being a first-rate 
connoisseur. Had, that is, some years ago ; — years you can’t 
remember, my dear Blanche, for a very good reason — there 
was no Lady Blanche then ; no such bright star in the dark 
firmament ; ” and he bowed with the most studied politeness ; 
“ except, if there must be an exception, — ^you will not quarrel 
with mine — the countess, your mother. A charming woman — 
a very^ charming woman.” Sir Hugh paused to take breath ; 
he saw that Blanche had laid down her work at his last words, and 
was listening eagerly for the rest. “ Poor thing ! Ah ! years 
gone by ! poor thing ! Yes, I remember perfectly. Mrs. 
Wentworth was here a good deal in those days ; she must have 
been this young man’s mother.” 

“ Mrs. Wentworth was a great friend of dear mamma’s,” 
said Blanche, speaking with an effort ; yet determined, if pos- 
sible, to keep him for a few minutes to the point. 

“ Yes, my dear — yes, I remember. Mrs. Wentworth and the 
countess, poor thing ! ” and the sigh which accompanied the 
words evidently came from the heart. Blanche’s fingers moved 
quickly at her work ; but it was from nervousness, not industry. 
Was the sigh for her mother’s death, or for her life ? “ Poor 

thing ! ” again began Sir Hugh. “ Your father is altered, my 
dear ; a great blow that was — sudden to him. She was a lovely 
creature ! I had a great regard for her.” 

“ It must have been so sad for papa, being away when she 
was ill,” observed Blanche. 

“ Yes, I suppose so ; one can’t tell. One can never say ! it 
was a very lonely life. But people were mistaken. A proud 
man. Lord Rutherford ; very natural pride, my dear ; don’t 
think I find fault with it. A very proud man ! !N^obody 
knows him thoroughly that has not lived with him for years. 
Lady Charlton and I, of course, are intimately acquainted with 
his character, but other people talked great nonsense. How- 
ever, I always understood him. We h^ad tastes in common. 

4 


74 


THE earl’s daughter. 


He was devoted to geology. I gave him introductions when 
he went abroad, and they were of great use to him. I wanted 
him to take notes, and write. I told him- 1 would assist. If 
he would have given the facts, I would have dressed them — 
adopted them and clothed them : they should have been my 
‘ enfans trouves ; ’ ” and Sir Hugh laughed so long and heartily 
at his own wit, that he did not perceive how little his compa- 
nion sympathised with his mirth. 

“ That is the luncheon-bell, I think,” said Blanche, rising, and 
collecting her work. 

“ Luncheon ! so late is it ? But time passes so rapidly 
‘ With thee conversing’ — ^you know the rest.” 

“ I am afraid it is easier to forget times and seasons than 
luncheon,” said Blanche ; “ but I cannot leave you alone. May 
I ring for Pearson ?” 

“ Ah ! thoughtful as you are ! it is quite reversing the natu- 
ral order. A sad enemy is the gout ; very sad, indeed,^ to an 
active man in the prime of life ; — a sad enemy !” 

Sir Hugh shook his head longhand dolefully, but would not 
allow Blanche to do anything for him. “ It would distress him 
too much,” he said ; “ it was unnatural, improper — her society, 
that was all he required — he had been so flattered, so 
honoured ;” and, with the words still ringing in her eai-s, 
Blanche at last contrived to escape to the drawing-room. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“And so the Wentworths will not come, Blanche,” said Lord 
Rutherford, as his daughter seated herself at the luncheon-table. 
“ Dr. Wentworth has a prior engagement.” 

“ Not come ! How very disappointing ! May I see the 
note ?” 

It was from Mrs. Wentworth, polite and chilling. Blanche 
said nothing, but looked very vexed. 

“ I grive for the failure of my first attempts for society, 
Adelaide,” said the earl, addressing his niece. “ Only remem- 
ber, it really is not my fault.” 

Blanche took up the note again to examine it. “ A prior 
engagement is so odd. Eleanor must have known that I should 
want her ; and th^y are not going out I am nearly sure, unless 
it may be Mr. Wentworth. He returned yesterday, I believe.” 


THE EARL S DAUGHTER. 


V5 


Adelaide Charlton looked up eagerly ; but her mother’s eye 
was fixed upon her, and the eagerness vented itself in a quick 
demand for some bread. 

“ That must be our Mr. Wentworth,” said Maude, speaking 
in a deep, but peculiarly mellow voice, which was yet disagree- 
ably abrupt. “ He said he came from Rutherford.” 

“ I thought he was living away,” observed Lady Charlton. 

Her tone struck Blanche directly : it was new to her ; there 
was more gravity and sternness in it than she was prepared for. 

“ Young Wentworth is a handsome nian,” said the earl, care- 
lessly ; “ but he is too much of a coxcomb to be a gentleman.” 

“ Those travelled young men very often are,” observed Lady 
Charlton. “It is ‘ We and the world’ with them; and really, 
at last, one is disgusted in spite of oneself.” 

“ But Mr. Wentworth must be superior to that class, I 
think,” said Blanche ; “ his sister is so fond of him,” 

“ And you swear by his sister then ?” asked Maude, sharply. 

Blanche was rather startled, and did not know what to 
reply. 

“ Maude, my dear ; you really must be careful in your ex- 
pressions. Lord Rutherford will think you a complete Goth,” 
said Lady Charlton. 

“ Give me a better word,” answered Maude, “ and I will 
use it.” 

“ Maude’s favourite theory,” said Lady Charlton, addressing 
the earl. “ I must tell you of it, to prepare you for anything 
strange you may hear. She says — what is it, my dear Maude ? 
Explain your own notions ; you will do it much better than I 
shall.” 

Lord Rutherford assumed a listening attitude; but it was 
clear that he was perfectly indifferent, and Maude raised her 
piercing grey eyes to his face, and said : 

“ My notions are, that I should like a piece of cake ;• if my 
uncle will be good enough to cut it.” 

Lord Rutherford complied with the request, and did not 
trouble himself to ask for -any further explanation of Maude’s 
notions, Blanche was still silent, pondering upon Eleanor 
Wentworth’s refusal, and a sudden check seemed to have been 
put to Adelaide’s usual vivacity. The party was becoming 
dull ; and Lady Charlton, who dreaded dulness as an enemy, 
endeavoured to infuse a little spirit into it by inquiring what 
were the afternoon plans. Blanche observed that the refusal 
had rather disturbed them ; for Eleanor Wentworth, she had 


76 


THE earl’s daughter. 


hoped, would have formed one of a riding party with them : at 
least, with Adelaide and herself. Maude, she understood, , very 
seldom rode. 

“ No, never ; except by myself,” was Maude’s ungracious 
answer. 

“ Papa talked of taking you and my aunt for a drive,” con- 
tinued Blanche, with a slight air of restraint, caused insensibly 
by her cousin’s manner ; “ and Sir Hugh” — 

“ Oh ! never mind Sir Hugh, my love,” exclaimed Lady 
Charlton. “ Pearson will take care of him. He will not be in 
a condition to move for the next week. But he is quite happy ; 
don’t distress yourself about him : he wants nothing except his 
new book on geology. A great blessing it is,” she added more 
gravely, “ that he can occupy himself : he is devoted to 
science.” 

' “ Blanche,” said the earl, rising suddenly, “ can you come 
with me and look at the shrubs they have been planting this 
morning on the bank ? We will prepare for the driving and 
riding afterwards, if your aunt and your cousins will arrange 
together what they wish to do.” 

He threw open the window, and walked out upon the ter- 
race. Blanche followed him with a sensation of freedom and 
pleasure. The earl drew her arm within his : he did not take- 
her to see the shrubs ; but, when they reached the end of the 
terrace, he turned again, and continued to walk without speak- 
ing ; though once he passed his hand caressingly over hers, and 
looked in her face and smiled : and Blanche had learnt to value 
such a look. Lord Rutherford’s laugh was for the world ; his 
smiles were almost exclusively for her. He stopped at length 
and drew a long breath, and in a light tone exclaimed, “ Well, 
Blanche ! we are alone again ; shall we remain so ?” 

Blanche hesitated. “ I have not made up my mind, papa : — 
it is such a very early day. I like them.” 

“ Like them, — yes, I suppose you do. But it is not duty, is 
it ? I never wish you to like any one from duty.” 

Blanche laughed faintly ; she had already learnt that duty 
was not in her father’s catalogue of allowable motives. “ No : 

I suppose it is not from duty ; but feelings are such mixed 
things, it is hard to analyze them. I am not sure that I shall 
love them,” she added, more boldly ; “ except, that is, my aunt.” 

“ Lady Charlton is a very sensible woman,” said the earl. “ I 
never knew her to do but one foolish thing in her life. That 
scatter-brained piece of pomposity, Sir Hugh ! how could she 
marry him ?” 


THE earl’s daughter. 77 

“ Yes ; it is strange, very strange,” said Blanche, thoughtfully ; 
“ she is so superior, — she could never have loved him.” 

“ Blanche, my child, you must learn to put aside your 
romance,” said the earl gently, but seriously. “ There are more 
marriages in the world without love than you, in your simplicity, 
can imagine. I do not wonder at Lady Charlton’s marrying 
without love — no one who has had any experience of life could 
do so — but it is marvellous that, when she was resolved upon a 
sacrifice, she should have devoted herself for nothing, — absolutely 
nothing,” he added, angrily. 

“ Yet she must have loved him, too, I suppose,” said Blanche, 
musingly. “ If there was nothing else, it must have been love ; 
I should not hke to think it was not.” 

“ Not like it !” said the earl. “ Why, what could it signify 
to you?” 

“ Because,” replied Blanche, and the colour deepened on her 
cheek, and she spoke hurriedly — “ because it seems a false thing 
to do to marry without it ; it is an untruth ; it cannot really 
bring a blessing : at least, I think not, — ^it seems to me,” she 
added, timidly, as if ashamed of her own eagerness. 

The earl paused ; his voice was altered when he spoke again ; 
it was low and tremulous. “ And you believe that love must 
bring a blessing ; that it must be happiness,” he said. 

“ Yes, real, true, holy love,” replied Blanche : “ surely it must 
be so.” 

“ It may be, — one cannot tell,” answered the earl ; and 
then, in an under tone, he added, “ Yet it is a dream, — an 
unreality.” 

“ That is not what people generally think it ; is it ?” said 
Blanche, quickly, for she was struck by the peculiarity of his 
manner. 

“ They call it happiness,” said the earl ; “ but they do not 
know their own meaning. Happiness !” he repeated, bitterly ; 
“ no, happiness is for the cold and calculating ; for those who 
can trust themselves, who know their own weakness, and can 
foresee the consequences of their own -actions. Love is impulse, 
feeling, excitement.” 

“ But there is something in it besides, calmer and deeper,” 
rephed Blanche ; “ or it could never last : and marriage would 
be miserable, most miserable,” she added, earnestly. 

Lord Rutherford stopped suddenly in his walk. “ Did you 
ever hear of a miserable marriage, Blanche ?” he said, 
quickly. 


18 


THE earl’s daughter. 


“ 111 books, people have said it ; ' there are such things,” 
replied Blanche, almost frightened by his manner. 

He laughed sarcastically. “ Yes, in another sphere, — in the 
world, the dreamy world ; not in the real Utopia of St. Ebbe’s.” 
He was going to turn again on the terrace ; but, checking 
himself, added, in his usual tone, “ This is but idle talking. Go 
to your aunt, Blanche, and settle what you will. I will ride 
with you, if you wish it.” He did not wait for question or 
reply, but strode down the walk which led to the river’s bank, 
and was soon lost to sight amongst the thick trees. 

“ You are not going out with Adelaide, merely to please her, 
my love ?” said Lady Charlton, as Blanche, about half an hour 
afterwards, came into the room dressed in her riding-habit, and 
looking rather grave. 

Blanche brightened in an instant, and said that riding was her 
favourite exercise : but her aunt did not seem satisfied. 

“We shall not stay with you, my dear, if you allow us to' 
interrupt your usual habits. You are very busy, I am sure. 
No one could have been educated by Mrs. Howard without 
being so.” 

-“Mi-s. Howard is so good with her business,” exclaimed 
Blanche ; “ she is so really useful : what I have to do is very 
little. I am sure, if she could be here, she would put me in the 
way of doing a great deal more.” 

“But she is coming to you, is she not?” inquired Lady 
Charlton. “ I am sure I heard your father say something 
about it.” 

“ She was to have come ; but she has been obliged to delay : 
one of her nieces is ill,” said Blanche. “ I am longing for her, 
to help me in everything ; to make me methodical and ener- 
getic, and like herself, if she could,” she added, laughing. • 

Lady Charlton began the fii-st words of a compliment, but 
stopped. “ I wont say what I was going to say, my dear ; I 
don’t think it would be in your way, though it would be true : 
and I will not offer to take Mrs. Howard’s place, — that would 
be out of the question ; but you must let me know if I can ever 
be of any use to you. I dare say you go about amongst 
the poor people. Your dear mother always did,” she said, with 
a change of tone which made Blanche’s heart thrill, though she 
could not trust herself at that moment to answer the allusion. 

“ I go sometimes,” was all she replied. 

Lady Charlton drew near and kissed her tenderly. “ You 
shall let me go with you : I shall like it. It will seem that the 


THE earl’s daughter. 


79 


old times are come back — quite — when I look at you,” she 
added, gazing in Blanche’s face with a sad smile. 

Blanche returned the kiss, and, unfastening a brooch which 
she always wore, showed a miniature, exquisitely painted. 
“ Will you tell me if it is like ?” she said. “ I have been afraid 
to ask papa.” 

Lady Charlton took the brooch in her hand, and turned to 
the light. She was looking at it attentively, and Blanche, 
leaning over her, was waiting with great interest for her opinion. 
Lord Rutherford came to the window. Blanche, by a kind of 
instinct, took the brooch hastily from her aunt ; but not before 
the earl had remarked it. 

“ A new trinket, Blanche ?” he exclaimed cheerfully. “ Let 
me see.” 

Blanche’s hand shook, and the brooch fell to the ground. The 
earl stooped to pick it up. There was a silence of some 
moments. 

Lady Charlton said, “ It is very like,” and held out her hand 
for it. 

“ The carriage is waiting,” was all Lord Rutherford’s reply. 

He walked away, and Lady Charlton, as she returned the 
brooch to Blanche, said, “ You shall talk to me, my love ; it is 
not a subject for him.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

The first determination which Blanche formed the next day 
was that she would go to the parsonage early. The disap- 
pointment of the preceding afternoon had vexed her consider- 
ably, and she was resolved not to run the risk of another 
refusal. She would go herself and make the request, and then 
it could not, she hoped, be denied. 

The subject was mentioned casually at breakfast. Blanche 
began to feel herself sufficiently at home with her aunt and 
cousins to leave them to themselves, and said she should go 
to the rectory the first thing, and engage Eleanor for the 
day ; “ and we will walk, if you like it, in the afternoon,” 
she added, addressing Lady Charlton. “ I must go into the 
village.” 

“ Must ! my love,” exclaimed the earl, quickly. “ Who says 
must to you ?” 


80 


THE earl’s daughter. 


“ I say it to myself,” replied Blanche, smiling : “ it is not an 
imperative must ; only my aunt said she would like to go with 
me sometimes ; and ” 

“ Yes, my dear, certainly,” interposed Lady Charlton ; “ of 
all things I shall like to accompany you ; but to-day, I rather 
think, 1 have an engagement. A great friend of mine, Mrs. 
Cuthbert Grey, is staying in this neighbourhood, and I promised 
to go and see her when I came here. She is on a visit to the 
Donningtons. I think I had better take advantage of the fair 
weather. Ady, what do you say ?” 

Adelaide answered carelessly that, if it must be, she supposed 
it had better be ; but that Maude would do just as well as her- 
self. “ I shall go with Blanche this morning, if I ipay,” 
she continued. “ Blanche, you will take me to the rectory ; I 
delight in walking the fii’st thing after breakfast.” 

“ Immensely intimate,” said Maude, in her cold sepulchral 
tone ; “ the civility must be for Mr. Wentv orth : you don’t 
know any one else.” 

“ You will stay at home, Ady,” interrupted Lady Charlton, 
glancing quickly at the earl ; but he was now engrossed in the 
newspaper, and knew nothing that was passing. 

Blanche was puzzled for an instant, but took the matter sim- 
ply, and assured them that ceremony with the Wentworths 
would be quite unnecessary. They met every day. If Adelaide 
liked to go, she might do so easily. 

“ She will stay at home, my dear,” repeated Lady Charlton, 
deciiledly ; and of course the question was supposed to be 
settled. 

But Blanche stood at the green gate of the rectory, and was 
trying to open it, when she heard some one behind her say, 
laughingly, “ Where there is a will there is a way, Blanche. 
Did you never hear that before ? An exceedingly romantic 
spot this for a parsonage, I must say.” 

Blanche w’as silent from surprise. 

“ I can open the gate, I dare say,” continued Adelaide ; “ or 
— look, there is Mr. Wentworth.” 

Blanche was excessively annoyed, and answered coolly, that 
she would not trouble Mr. Wentworth ; she should leave a mes- 
sage for Eleanor, and go back. 

“ When you have come on purpose to see her ? I am sure 
you will not do anything of the kind : you could not be so 

capricious. Mr. Wentworth ” and as the gentleman drew 

near, Adelaide held out her hand with the ease of an 


THE earl’s daughter. 


81 


old acquaintance. “ How very strange ! Where did you drop 

Mr. Wentworth reciprocated the surprise, expressed a due 
amount of pleasure, and threw open the gate. 

Adelaide waited for her cousin to go forward ; hut Blanche 
paused resolutely. “Thank you,” she said, addressing Mr. 
Wentworth, “but I am afraid I must return now. Since we 
have met you, perhaps you will do me the favour to deliver a 
message to Eleanor. I want her very much to spend the day 
with me, and to come as early as possible. Mi-s. Wentworth is 
quite well, I hope ?” 

“ Quite, thank you ; but surely, — indeed. Lady Blanche, you 
must not go back without seeing my mother ; she will be 
vexed if you don’t ; you have giv^n yourself so much trouble.” 

“ Only a pleasant walk,” replied Blanche. “ Pray say to 
Mrs. Wentworth how sorry we were she could not dine with 
us yesterday. Good morning.” She bowed, and turned away ; 
but Adelaide was already within the gate. Such a bewitching 
rose she had seen ! — amongst the briei’s, — nearly hidden it 
was, — Mr. Wentworth must give it her. 

Mr. Wentworth plunged into the thicket, and Adelaide still 
advanced. Blanche could not let her go on alone, for the next 
moment she would be in front of the house : and so she was ; 
and not only before the house, but before the whole family 
party, who were talking together on the lawn. Blanche had 
nothing to do but to go up to them, and introduce her cousin 
and apologize ; though the apology was a difficulty, for her 
gentle spirit was very considerably roused. 

Setting aside the neglect of Lady Charlton’s wishes, Adelaide 
was unquestionably rude to herself, and Blanche had never 
experienced rudeness before. Mrs. Wentworth received the 
excuse for the intrusion politely, but without any cordiality ; 
and even Eleanor’s warm kiss and exclamation of delight, could 
not take away the general awkwardness. Adelaide alone was 
quite at her ease, and admired the house and garden in a tone 
of easy familiarity, not unmixed with patronage, which made 
Mrs. Wentworth’s civihty freeze into a stiffness nearly amounting 
to haughtiness. 

The restraint, however, was at an end, when both Dr. and 
Mrs. Wentworth were called away. Then Eleanor and Blanche 
strolled to a distance by themselves ; and Adelaide, declaring 
that the walk had tired her, and therefore she would wait till 
they returned, threw herself upon a garden-bench, and began 

4 * 


82 


THE earl’s daughter. 


a quick, laughing conversation of reminiscences with Mr. Went* 
worth. 

“You are worried, Blanche,” was Eleanor’s first observation, 
when they were beyond hearing. “ You have never looked as 
you do now since the days when we used to puzzle over Dante 
together.” 

“ I wish it was a Dante worry now,” replied Blanche ; “ I 
could understand that ; but really to be angry and uncomfort- 
,^ble without knowing why, is rather trying.” 

“ Are things going wrong at the castle ?” inquired Eleanor. 

“ Oh, no ! not in the least, — that is, I suppose they are not ; 
but new people fret me and puzzle me. I don’t know what 
they mean ; and Adelaide Charlton is so persevering, — so 
wilful, I suppose Mrs. Howard would say : and her manner is 
— I can’t tell what to call it — but excessively disagreeable.” 

Eleanor laughed heartily. “ Now, that really is delightful, 
Blanche, to find that you can be severe like the rest of the 
world.” 

“ It is not for myself,” continued Blanche ; “ really I should 
not care what she did or said with me ; we are cousins, and it 
does not sigmify : but it must look very strange to your mother. 
By Adelaide’s tone, I should have fancied her to have been 
your intimate friend for years.” 

“ Knowing Charles well, makes her at home with us, I 
suppose,” replied Eleanor ; “ he said to me yesterday that he 
knew her in Italy. But do forget her oddity, Blanche, if you 
can, and tell me how you are going on altogether.” 

Blanche sighed, and then laughed. “ I can’t tell, and I don’t 
know anything ; I believe I am quite cross this morning. The 
castle seems in a complete bustle. My aunt has brought such 
innumerable servants, I stumble upon a new face in every 
corner. And it is so noisy to what it was : even when I am 
alone, the atmosphere of bustle seems to be around me. More- 
over, I suspect I shall see exceedingly little of papa ; for you 
know it is not really seeing him, talking in a common way, 
when other people are present : and Sir Hugh has taken posses- 
sion of the library, so that I can’t get the books I want ; and 
Adelaide sings snatches of songs to the piano, and will not 
practise a single thing steadily with me ; and Maude reads and 
says nothing, but looks as if she was not at ail happy. In fact, 
Eleanor, I suspect I am immensely selfish ; — I mean it in 
earnest !” 

Again Eleanor laughed, and expressed herself charmed to 


THE earl’s daughter. 


83 


find that Blanche could descend to the level of humanity, and 
be tormented by trifles. “ Put out ; actually put out,” she 
exclaimed ; “ as I am when Susan says her lessons badly.” 

Blanche was silent for a few moments. She was full of 
thought. “ There is a way of taking things, I am sure,” she 
said ; “ a right way and a wrong. Just as when one begins to 
wind a skein of silk ; if one can find the right end, it all runs 
smoothly ; and if one begins with the wrong, it must be 
entangled. When I can understand them all better, perhaps I 
may be able to find the right end. Just now there seems an 
entanglement ; — wills and ways mixing. They never mixed at 
St. Ebbe’s.” 

“ My dear Blanche, how exceedingly amusing !” exclaimed 
Eleanor ; “ but you never were in a home before, — I forgot. 
You don’t understand what it is for grown-up people to live 
together. Why that sort of mixing of wills and ways, as you 
call it, goes on perpetually here.” 

“ Does it ?” said Blanche. “ But how do you manage ?” 

“I go. my own way, and let other people go theirs,” said 
Eleanor lightly ; “ and things come round again.” 

“ But I don’t see exactly how it can b^e here,” observed 
Blanche. “ Your father and mother are so good, and your 
brother — ” 

“ Ah !” interrupted Eleanor, “ that is the point. Charles is 
delightful, exceedingly clever, and he can talk amusingly, and 
sketch, and sing duets, and rave about Italy ; there is no one 
like him. But it does not quite do ; it does not suit papa and 
mamma : they think a clergyman ought to be graver, and they 
don’t know what Charles is really lik^e ; and so they are vexed 
with him ; and he is provoked, and complains to me, and takes 
up my time in listening to him : and then Susan is idle because 
I don’t attend to her, and mamma is angry with me because she 
says I neglect my duties ; and there is a history of my home, 
Blanche ; so now choose between the two.” Blanche did not 
attempt to choose. A shadow of the deeper anxiety which was 
for ever corroding her peace, crossed her mind : and the lighter 
evils of which they had both been complaining, melted into 
nothing. Adelaide Charlton’s laugh just then reached them. 
Eleanor stopped and listened. 

“ She is happy,” said Blanche, gravely. 

Eleanor looked round in wonder. “ That from you, Blanche ! 
One would suppose you envied her.” 

“ Oh ! no, never ; but I suppose it is natural to some people 


84 


THE earl’s daughter. 


not to think. However, I did not come here to moralize ; we 
must settle what we will do to-day. You will come to the 
castle as soon as you possibly can ; and then we will walk, if 
you like it, in the afternoon. My aunt is going to pay visits, 
and I thought you and I might go together to see poor Susan- 
nah Dyer.” 

Eleanor hesitated for an instant. “ You are going to walk ?” 
she repeated in a musing tone. 

“ Yes ; do you see any objection ; would you rather not? I 
thought, as it was our settled day, we had better not put it off.” 

“ Is it our day ? I had forgotten,” said Eleanor. 

“ Yes, on Thursdays we agreed to go ; and as my aunt will 
probably be here a long time, it seemed desirable not to give up 
one’s usual duties, if it could be helped. My aunt does not 
wish it ; she told me so yesterday ; and she half offered to go 
with me herself.” 

“ Lady Charlton !” exclaimed Eleanor. 

“ Yes ; she is not at all what I know you fancied her ; she is 
not in the least a fine lady. I put her out of my catalogue of 
worries, for she is delightful.” 

“ But she will not go with us,” observed Eleanor. 

“ No, because of the visit ; we shall have the afternoon to 
ourselves. Dear Eleanor ! I shall enjoy it so very much.” 

Eleanor could not help being pleased. The tone of Blanche’s 
voice was in itself sufficiently animating to dispel the feeling of 
distrust which was continually lurking, though unperceived, in 
her mind. She agreed tRat it would be very pleasant, and very 
right ; and began to discover decided reasons why it was ne- 
cessary they should go — the chief being, that as they had pro- 
mised it would be necessary to keep the engagement, and that 
poor Susannah Dyer being blind, and helpless, and ill, had a 
particular claim upon them. 

“ And now I must go back,” said Blanche, when the point 
was settled. “ Back to my duties. Such strange ones they 
are, Eleanor ; so unfitted for me ; at least, so unlike all that I 
should have formed for myself.” 

“ To stay in the drawing-room, and play the agreeable, and be 
referred to as the lady of. the house,” said Eleanor. “ I shall 
like to come and see how you behave.” 

“ No, you would not like it,” exclaimed Blanche, energeti- 
cally. “ One never does like to see people out of their sphere ; 
mine most decidedly is not to rule. You must see my aunt, 
Eleanor *, she is the person to be at the head of aflairs ; you 


THE earl’s daughter. 


85 


would say at once, that she could decide every question brought 
before her, and could tell precisely how, and why, and when, 
everything should be done. Papa says she has immense tact, 
and I think I can see it. There is an indescribable something 
about her which is very charming ; her walk, the turn of her 
head, her smile — and very handsome she is too ! handsome for 
her age ; she must have been beautiful.” 

“ I shall be afraid of her,” said Eleanor, coldly and proudly. 

“ Oh ! indeed, I don’t think you will ; though one or two 
things make me think sho might be alarming if she chose 
it. I doubt whether Maude or Adelaide get on with her ; 
she seems very short with them ; and Maude shuts herself up 
the moment her mother comes into the room. As for Ade- 
laide, she rattles on always ; but there is a difference even in 
her.” 

“ And Sir Hugh,” inquired Eleanor ; “ what is he like ?” 

Blanche appeared uncertain how to reply, and after waiting 
some seconds, laughed and said, “ I don’t think it is fair to 
question me in this manner about my relations ; you shall come 
and judge for yourself. But I must go now, I have been very 
rude in leaving Adelaide such a time.” 

“I don’t imagine Miss Charlton thinks you rude,” said 
Eleanor, looking towards her brother and Adelaide. “ I doubt 
whether she is tired of her companion.” 

Blanche stood still, and watched them. Adelaide, sitting 
upright, was speaking quickly ; and Mr. Wentworth, standing 
before her, and playing with a walking-stick, wtis listening with 
an expression — ^which, to Blanche, seemed that of attentive 
deference. 

“ He is very handsome, Blanche ; is he not ?” said Eleanor. 

Blanche smiled thoughtfully. “ Yes, very ; extremely hand- 
some. I am glad Adelaide has some one to talk to that she 
likes.” She walked on quickly. Eleanor would not make 
another observation, for she was disappointed. They heard 
Mr. Wentworth say, as they drew near, “ The charm is not in 
the place, but in the people.” He spoke with feeling ; but 
Adelaide only laughed, and rallied him for his old-fashioned 
sentimentality; and as Blanche approached, thanked her for 
having interrupted their t6te-a-t6te, which she declared was 
becoming tiresome as they had said all they could think of. 
Mr. Wentworth turned from her, and addressed a few words to 
Blanche ; but, after a short interval, Adelaide again dexterously 


86 


THE earl’s daughter. 




engaged his attention, and kept up a series of bantering re- 
partees till they reached the shrubbery-gate. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Blanche returned home dissatisfied. It was provoking to 
have spent half her morning without pleasure or profit; for her 
^ conversation with Eleanor had brought her neither. It was 
unconnected, desultory, and not free from petulance and irrita- 
tion. She found Lady Charlton and Maude in the morning- 
room ; one working, the other reading. Blanche took out her 
drawing materials. She was determined to employ herself at 
something which would tone her mind, and the drawing was 
one which her father particularly wished her to copy. Lady 
Charlton no sooner observed what she was doing than she left 
her worsted frame, and stood by watching her, and called to 
Maude to come and admire; but Maude only turned round 
languidly, and contriving to peep at the drawing without giving 
herself trouble said nothing, and returned to her reading. 
Lady Charlton laughed at her as sadly uncouth in manner, but 
assured Blanche that it was always her way ; she was such a 
first-rate connoisseur ; she would admire nothing, except Raphael 
and Guido and the old Italian masters : and then, saying that 
she must inquire if Sir Hugh was dressed, she left the room. 

Blanche went on drawing and thinking, in a tranquil undis- 
turbed state, which was very soothing. She was copying a 
Holy Family from an engraving, colouring it according to 
her own taste; and, as the first soft hue brought out the 
beautiful outline of the group, her attention was more and 
more fixed upon it. She had no wish for conversation ; 
silence was natural to her, especially since she had lately spent 
many hours alone ; and Maude, leaning back in her easy-chair, 
turned the leaves of her book so quietly, that Blanche soon lost 
all consciousness of her presence. She finished the first tint, 
and, laying down her brush, took up the print to examine it 
more closely. The expression of the different faces was 
wonderful ; pure, simple, almost severe, in their high spiritual 
beauty. Blanche forgot that she was an artist; she forgot to 
criticise or admire, and resting her head upon her hand, she 
bent over it rapt in thought. 


THE earl’s daughter. 


87 


“ Are you dreaming ?” was the question which woke her 
from her reverie ; spoken in Maude’s deep vpice of melody. 
She was standing at a little distance with a closed book in her 
hand ; a smile was upon her lips, hut it had nothing of gentle- 
ness in it. Blanche started as she was addressed. 

“ You were dreaming,” repeated Maude. “ Was it of the 
colour of Joseph’s robe ?” and she laughed. 

Blanche took up her pencil and replied, “ It is difficult not to 
dream a little with such a beautiful subject before one.” 

“ It is beautiful, is it ?” continued Maude, in the same careless 
way. She drew nearer to the table. 

Blanche moved her own drawing, and placed the engraving 
in a good light, and then was going away. 

“ Don’t go,” said Maude, putting her hand upon her shoul- 
der ; “ tell me why you like it ?” 

“ Why ?” and Blanche’s eye flashed with enthusiasm \ 
“ because it is unearthly, pure ; — because it raises one’s mind to 
look at it ; — because,” she added, her voice uuconsciously 
sinking, “ it brings before one the only reality.” 

She was again going, but Maude a second time detained her. 
“ Then you don’t like it because it is a good drawing ?” she 
said, abruptly. 

“ In a measure I do ; but that is a different kind of admira- 
tion — it is an artist’s, and I am no artist.” 

Maude took the engraving in her hand, and turned to the 
light. “ That finger is out of proportion,” she said, pointing to 
the extended hand of the Virgin. She laid the print on the 
table, and gazing from the window, allowed Blanche to resume 
her drawing without further comment. 

Blanche began her work in a different spirit. She was no 
longer unconscious that Maude was in the room, her presence 
oppressed her, and she could not succeed. Maude came be- 
hind her, and hummed a light French air ; and Blanche, m 
despair, laid down her pencil, and looking round, said simply, 
“ If you don’t mind very much — if you would not think 
me odd — I should be so glad if you would go away.” 

Maude did not move. “ Which do you like least,” she said : 
“ my presence, or my song ?” 

“ I like neither,” replied Blanche, laughing. 

“ Don’t you ? But listen ! I will try something else.” 

She leant against Blanche’s chair and paused for a second ; 
and then, as if a voice sounded in the far distance, the melody 
of a German Hymn fell upon Blanche’s ear, soft at first, and 


88 


THE earl’s daughter. 


liquid in its sweetness, but gradually swelling and deepening, 
till the full burst of praise seemed to fill the spacious room. It 
ceased suddenly as it had begun, and there was silence. 

A tear rolled down Blanche’s cheek. 

Maude pretended not to notice it, but in her natural quick 
manner, exclaimed, “ You have not told me a word about your 
visit this morning. Did Adelaide carry on her flirtation suc- 
cessfully ? I knew she would go.” 

“ I should like to hear it again,” said Blanche, unheeding the 
question ; and looking up at her cousin with a peculiar smile — 
half of melancholy, and half of eager delight. 

“ You like music, do you ?” said Maude. She seated herself 
at the piano, and touched a few chords, whilst Blanche returned 
to her drawing. Maude suffered her fingers to wander over 
the keys, slowly at the commencement, and as it were thought- 
fully ; but increasing in power and force till they moved with a 
rapidity which was electrifying. But again they sank into a 
low prelude, and the same clear flute-like notes, which before 
had seemed to Blanche as scarcely belonging to a human voice, 
were blended with them. The words were distinct as the 
music. 


II passato non ^ 

Ma se lo pinge 
La viva remembranza. 

II future non e, 

Ma se lo finge 
La credula speranza. 

II presente sol e, 

Che in un baleno 
Passa del nulla in seno. 

Dunque la vita e appunto 

Una memoria, una speranza, un punto.” 


As the song proceeded, Blanche’s pencil dropped from her 
hand. So surpassingly sweet it was ; so thrilling in its mourn- 
ful melody ; so real in its expression : it seemed the true lan- 
guage in which the vanity of human life should be told. 
Maude repeated the last lines to herself, whilst she carelessly 
turned the leaves of a music-book which was open before her. 
Blanche left her seat, and stood beside her. 

* Una memoria, una speranza, un punto,* 

and that is all !” exclaimed Maude, looking round. 

Blanche’s colour deepened, and then it faded quite away, as 


THE earl’s daughter. 


89 


she said, whilst her voice faltered; “Oh! Maude! Could you 
bear to think so?” 

“ It is truth,” answered Maude. “ There needs no ghost 
come from the grave to tell us of it.” And she sang the two 
last lines again, with an intensity of feeling which she did not 
attempt to check. 

Blanche stood with her eyes riveted upon her, — drinking in the 
sounds which at each repetition seemed more and more perfect. 

“ Tell me,” exclaimed Maude, with an air of triumph, as she 
'ended, “ What is it, if it is not so?- Where is the past? In 
what part of the world will you dig till you can find it?” 

“But how can that which has been cease to be?” said 
Blanche, raising her eyes timidly to her cousin’s face. 

Maude paused ; and regarding her steadily, said, “ Are you 
a child, Blanche, or a woman ?” 

“A child, I believe,” replied Blanche, laughing. “Papa 
tells me so.” 

“ Yet you have notions ; what are they ?” The question was 
^ put with such an air of command, that Blanche, for a moment, 
felt herself bound to obey it ; but it was only for a moment, 
and she answered with reserve, that it was hard to explain 
them : perhaps when they had been together longer, it would 
be less difficult. 

“ But I hke notions ; I like theories,” persisted Maude ; her 
large grey eyes lighted up with what might almost have been 
termed a fierce eagerness. “ I must know,” she added, laying 
her hand upon Blanche’s wrist. 

Blanche drew back. A very slight accent of hauteur might 
have been perceptible in the tone in which she said, “ Another 
time ; not now.” 

Maude’s brow was clouded ; she rose fi’om the piano, threw 
herself into a chair, took a book from the table, and tossed it 
down with an air of contempt ; and, after some time, began 
walking about the room. 

Blanche was annoyed with herself for being annoyed. She 
scarcely knew why she had been ; and she sat at her drawing- 
table, busied in discovering the state of her own mind, and 
wishing that Maude would speak again and give her the oppor- 
tunity of making something like an apology. 

The silence was long and awkward, and disturbed at length 
by the dull, slow, heavy sound of crutches. 

“ Sir Hugh is drest, I suppose,” said Blanche, glad to find 
something to say. 


90 


THE earl’s daughter. 


Maude did not reply. 

The sound grew louder, and the complaining voice of Sir 
Hugh was heard, telling Pearson, as usual, that he was a despe- 
rate idiot. 

Maude laughed sarcastically at the mild, deprecatory intona- 
tion which followed. She took up her book and disappeared 
through the window, whilst Blanche went to the door. 

“ Ah ! my dear Blanche ! I thought I should find you here ; 
my first walk, you see. I was determined to pay my respects 
to you. A delightful room this ! — infinitely improved ! — What 
in the name of wonder are you doing, Pearson ? Why don’t' 
you keep behind me? — Infinitely improved, my dear. That 
window I remember quite well. It was a plan of my own ; I 
saw how things ought to be long ago ; but your father — a very 
first-rate man is the earl ; don’t imagine that I have not the 
highest appreciation of his talents.' Excuse me, will you ? may 
I be allowed to rest?” And Sir Hugh was assisted into an 
arm-chair ; and, to the consternation of Blanche, wheeled to a 
comfortable convenient position, which he evidently intended 
should, at least for the present, be a permanent one. “ I was 
telling you,” began Sir Hugh again ; but he was interrupted 
by an exclamation — 

“ Sir Hugh ! this really is too bad ! It is far too great an 
exertion for him, Blanche ; but he would come ; he was so 
charmed with your half-hour’s conversation yesterday. It won’t 
do though. — Pearson, you must help your master back to the 
study.” 

“ Lady Charlton ! Frances, my dear ! — I insist ; you must not 
interfere. I was telling you, my dear Blanche, — ” 

Lady Charlton broke in again. “ My dear Sir Hugh ; — ^in- 
deed, I must have my own way. Hark ! really there are visit- 
ors ; and the earl — that is his footstep, I am certain. I as- 
sure you. Sir Hugh, you make me quite anxious. It is too 
much, a great deal too much for you,” she added, her tone be- 
coming gradually but perceptibly irritable ; and taking the 
crutch from Peai*son’s hand she put it near her husband. 

“ Pshaw ! Lady Charlton,” and with an impatient jerk, the 
crutch was thrown to the ground, to the imminent peril of 
Pearson’s toes. “ My dear Blanche, I was telling you — ” 

The sparkle of Lady Charlton’s eye alone told what was 
passing in her thoughts. When the door immediately after- 
wards opened, and the earl introduced Mr. and Miss Wentworth, 
her manner was that of the most bland good humour. 


THE earl’s daughter. 91 

“ So distressed, I am ! so exceedingly distressed !” began Sir 
Hugh, attempting to rise as Eleanor came up to him. 

Lady Charlton stood close beside him. “ Poor Sir Hugh ! 
He has been suffering fearfully : he is not fit to be here ; but 
his spirits carry him beyond his strength. Your brother is an 
old acquaintance, Miss Wentworth. We met last year at Flo- 
rence.” 

Mr. Wentworth was upon the point of holding out his hand 
to receive a cordial greeting ; but the extreme civility of Lady 
Charlton’s reception made him exchange the proposed shake of 
the hand for a bow, and a hope that Lady Charlton had been 
well since he last had the honour of seeing her. 

“ Quite well, thank you. You were in Italy, I believe, long 
after us.” 

“ Only a few weeks ; Florence became very dull.” 

“Indeed! I was not aware of it. We saw little general 
society. Rumours reached us of gaieties, but as you know,” 
appealing to the earl, “ general society is not very inviting 
abroad.” 

Lord Rutherford carelessly assented. 

“ We had a splendid summer at Florence, Mr. Wentworth,” 
said Sir Hugh ; “ I don’t know whether you ever recollect such 

another. I don’t, except the year . Lord Rutherford can 

tell the date, I dare say ; we were travellers together, taking a 
scientific tour on the Rhine. If you remember,” he continued, 
addressing the earl, '“ you were developing your sketching powers, 
and I flatter myself you made considerable progress, by the help 
of a few occasional hints ; the few hints, Mr. Wentworth, which 
a man engrossed in a great object could afford to give. Geology 
was my study ; I gave up everything for it.” 

“ Twenty years ago,” said the earl coolly. “ Blanche, my 
love, how has your drawing advanced this morning ?” 

Blanche brought it forward to be criticised. 

Mr. Wentworth had recovered from the slight shock of Lady 
Charlton’s reception, and now, with a very quiet and rather dig- 
nified air, joined in the remarks which the engraving and the 
copy called forth. Sir Hugh looked on from a distance, stretch- 
ing his head, and constantly endeavouring to interpose observa- 
tions of his own, which were as constantly taken up by Lady 
Charlton, and repeated in a new form, and, to judge from Mr. 
W entworth’s manner, an interesting one, for his marked atten- 
tion was given to whatever she uttered ; and, as Lord Ruther- 
ford was about to replace the drawing in its former position, he 


92 


THE earl’s daughter. 


begged permission to bring it nearer for her inspection and Sir 
Hugh’s. 

Blanche liked him better as she watched what was passing ; 
she had not thought before that he could be so easy and agreea- 
ble, and yet so respectful. 

“ A very pleasant thing it is to meet a travelled friend again, 
Mr. Wentworth,” said Sir Hugh, quite excited by the patience 
with which a disquisition upon the comparative merits of two 
of the early Italian masters had been listened to ; “ quite a grati- 
fication, I assure you. Lady Charlton and myself shall have 
great pleasure in renewing past recqllections ; and my daughters 
— Maude ! where is Maude ? My dear Blanche, surely she has 
been wilh you this morning ?” 

“ Maude is walking on the terrace,” said Lady Charlton 
quickly, “ and Adelaide is rambling over the grounds, I sup- 
pose ; she went' out directly after breakfast.” 

Blanche did not think it well to throw more light than was 
necessary upon the movements of either. There was a certain 
intonation in her aunt’s voice which she was just beginning to 
interpret. 

“ Ah, well, you will meet at luncheon ; but I forgot — really 
— Lord Rutherford — Lady Blanche, I ought to apologize.” 
Lady Charlton bit her lip, and gave an apparently involuntary 
push to Sir Hugh’s chair, which made him stop short, with an 
exclamation of pain. 

Lord Rutherford was talking to Eleanor at the window, and 
did not hear what was said, and the burden of hospitality fell 
upon Blanche. Gracefully but timidly she repeated the request 
that Mr. Wentworth would remain, and the invitation was soon 
seconded by the earl, with that perfect though distant politeness 
which leaves no room for complaint. Mr. Wentworth was 
therefore established on a comparatively familiar footing ; and 
Blanche, feeling herself no longer bound to entertain him, left 
the room with Eleanor. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Important consequences, it is well known, often follow from 
very slight beginnings. Mr. Wentworth’s first introduction at 
Rutherford Castle was mai'ked by no circumstances but those in- 


THE EARL 8 DAUGHTER. 


93 


cidental to morning visits ; yet it 'gave the tone to the inter- 
course which was to follow. 

The earl’s reserve and pride would have induced him to hesi- 
tate long before he allowed any persons in the neighbourhood, 
except his own peculiar friends, to be on such terms as to call 
early, and lounge away an hour and remain to luncheon, and 
perhaps join the riding and walking parties in the afternoon ; 
but what had been done once came rather naturally a second 
time, and certainly Lord Rutherford had no cause to suppose 
that Mr. •Wentworth’s presence or absence had the slightest 
effect upon the only individual with whom he chose to concern 
himself. Even as Eleanor’s brother, Blanche could only partially 
like Mr. Wentworth. His talents, his versatility of manner and 
ease of conversation, and the right principle and good sense 
which he always put forth when conversing with her. could not 
blind her to his faults ; and Blanche could only feel interest 
where she felt respect. It was perfectly indifferent to herself 
whether Mr. Wentworth formed one of the circle or not ; but 
childlike though she was, and simple in many of her ideas, 
Blanche could not fail to perceive that it was not so to others. 
Yet, even when the fact was acknowledged, Blanche scarcely 
thought of it. She noticed that Adelaide Charlton liked to 
talk and laugh with Mr. Wentworth ; and she observed that for 
some reason or other Lady Charlton frowned and looked vexed ; 
and she discovered that Mr. Wentworth contrived to ingratiate 
himself with Sir Hugh, and was rather disliked by Maude. But 
the little incidents, which would have afforded matter for sar- 
casm and ridicule to a more experienced eye, passed before her 
as the scenes of a theatre before a preoccupied, abstracted spec- 
tator. For Blanche lived in a world of her own ; or rather she 
lived in the world of her friends and relations, seeing the same 
sights, hearing the same sounds, and performing the same actions ; 
yet often deriving impressions totally contrary to theirs, from all 
that was passing around. 

So probably it must often be when religion becomes the pre- 
dominant feeling of the heart very early in life : it is all-power- 
ful then, for it has no master passion to oppose it. Adopted 
later in life, it must struggle with past evil recollections, and be 
frequently crushed and overborne by what we falsely term the 
realities of the world. We try to think that earth is nothing, 
that heaven is all ; but when we have toiled for years in the 
pursuit of wealth, or pleasure, or hime, how shall we in a 
moment persuade ourselves, that they are worthless ? 'Like the 


94 


THE earl’s daughter. 


fisherman in the eastern tale, we have voluntarily opened the 
casket in which the mighty spirit of delusion was encased, 
and that which seemed at first but a faint mist of evil has 
gathered itself up into a giant form, .and made itself our lord ; 
and, when we would fain command it back to its original no- 
thingness, we find that our will is powerless to enforce obedience. 
That Blanche retained her earnestness and sincerity of purpose 
w^as not owing to any particularly advantageous circumstances ; 
life at Rutherford Castle was, in its exterior, what life is in almost 
all places where there is no one great business or occupation to 
mould it into some definite form : there were rather late break- 
fasts, mornings seemingly frittered away in light reading, music, 
letter-writing, and not very profitable conversation ; afternoons 
devoted to some drive or ride ; seven o’clock dinnei-s and idle, 
talking, musical evenings. What was the purport of all that 
was said or done no one seemed to inquire. Lord Rutherford, 
indeed, spent much of his time in his study, and busied himself 
in managing his estates. His object was a definite one ; yet 
he was the only person, except Blanche, who appeared dissatis- 
fied with it. After the first excitement of his sister-in-law’s 
arrival was over he seemed inclined to sink back into the 
reserved and even contemptuous mood, which had occasionally 
shown itself before when he was alone with Blanche. Lady 
Charlton’s vivacity indeed often roused him, and brought out 
flashes of brilliant wit and quick observation ; but he soon 
relapsed again into silence, — in Sir Hugh’s presence especially ; 
though, fortunately for his temper and his peace, the gout 
lingered much longer than was expected, and kept Sir Hugh 
in a great measure a prisoner to his room. When he was 
absent the earl would occasionally read aloud, or enter into con- 
versations with Lady Charlton, which, as they seemed to possess 
a power to engage his attention and give him pleasure, were 
eagerly listened to by Blanche. 

They were certainly very agi-eeable, full of anecdote and 
information. Blanche’s opinion of her aunt’s talents and power 
of mind, and even of her principles, increased daily. For Lady 
Charlton never gave way to the earl’s implied doubts of good- 
ness, or clever sarcasm upon things and people whom Blanche 
had learned to reverence. She spoke openly, and in a measure 
earnestly upon all serious topics : blamed what was wrong, and 
approved of what was right, and when left alone with Blanche 
sympathized with any indication of her deeper feelings, more 
particularly when they were in any way connected with her 


THE earl’s daughter. * 95 

mother. Blanche was beginning to lean upon and trust her, 
at times even to think that she might partly supply Mrs. 
Howard’s place as a guide in her daily actions. They were 
very different, different in a way which Blanche felt better than 
she could describe ; but their ideas seemed the same. Lady 
Charlton was more cheerful, more full of life and hope ; she 
had more interest in passing events than Mrs. Howard ; but 
they liked the same people, approved of the same books, pro- 
fessed the same motives. Blanche could not have spoken to 
her aunt upon anything which immediately involved her own 
most sacred thoughts, for such confidence can scarcely be given 
except to one person, and Lady Charlton was too recent a 
friend, and too lively and light-hearted, to offer occasions for 
alluding to them ; but in all minor points she seemed a safe 
counsellor, and one whom the earl was particularly pleased that 
Blanche should apply to. 

“ I wish you knew her,” wrote Blanche to Mrs. Howard, in 
one of the weekly letter, which no occupation was ever allowed 
to stop. “ I should feel more certain then of my own opinion 
about her. Perhaps you will think it is not right to sit in judg- 
ment upon one who is so much my superior in age, and so 
nearly related to me ; but I do not know how to help it. I 
think you can scarcely imagine how entirely I am forced to form 
my own decisions, and act upon my own will. The last few 
months, since we parted, have worked a marvellous change. 
I am mistress of the castle, and forced to order and arrange, and 
treated with a deference which at first completely puzzled me. 
Papa seems to delight that it should be so. He will never 
allow the least opposition ; he calls me queen in jest, and when 
I beg him to tell me what he wishes for himself, a cloud comes 
over him, and he insists that he has no will but mine : and yet 
to others he is so different. This is not what ought to be, is it ? 
It frightens me : I long for some one to remind me of my 
duties ; to scold me, and tell me when I do wrong — which 
indeed is every hour in the day. I wish my aunt would do it. 
She has such very high principles, such good notions about 
everything. I am sure she must perpetually see that I am not 
acting rightly, but she never hints at its being possible. I do 
make her give me advice in common things, receiving visitors, 
arranging for dinner-parties, and so on ; but it is all done 
laughingly, with a half apology, as if she had no reason to 
suppose I did not know all that she does. What I most wish 
just now is to have some plan for the arrangement of my time. 


96 


THE earl’s daughter. 


I have thought a good deal about it lately ; for the kind of life 
I lead at present is exceedingly unsatisfactory, and yet I cannot 
tell how to alter it. If we have visitors, I must attend to them ; 
and really that takes up more time than any one not on the spot 
would imagine. My aunt constantly says th.at she will not 
interrupt me, if she thinks I have anything to do ; but then she 
begins talking, and I am bound in courtesy to listen ; and 
very willingly, I must own, for she is the most agreeable person 
I ever met with. Anecdotes she has to bring forward on every 
occasion, and they are never wearying, they are told so quickly, 
and with such spirit. She quite understands giving one 
resting-places, and entering into anything one says in reply. 
Really the hours pass by, and I have not the least idea that 
they are gone. Yet they are not satisfactory to look back upon. 
Then, if my aunt is not with me, Adelaide and Maude are ; 
and Adelaide is like a butterfly, flying from one pursuit to 
another, and calling upon me to follow her, and Maude — I meant 
to have written a great deal about her, but I must not to-day : 
if I once begin I shall certainly not leave off in time. She 
interests me though, that I must say ; and frightens me too. 
We had a little quarrel the other day, a very tiny one, but still 
sufficient to make me feel what she might be if she were 
offended. I am afraid I am very proud : she rather ordered me, 
and my spirit rebelled, and I showed that I was annoyed. I 
thought perhaps she would have been angry with me a long 
time ; but instead of that she came up to me afterwards, the 
first moment we were alone, and gave me a kiss, so kind ! 
it made me ten times more vexed with myself than I was 
before. Yet the next moment she was just like her old self, and 
I do not feel I have advanced in the least with her. All 
this is sadly wandering from my first subject, but when I write 
to you I always do wander : so many things come to my mind 
which I long to say. You will understand though that I lead 
a very unsettled, idle life, and that Eleanor leads a very useful, 
busy one ; and when we meet to compare notes I become 
discontented with myself, and long to do better, but do not 
know how to set about it. My aunt said she would go with me 
to visit the poor people, and I know she would, if she could find 
a leisure day ; but there is always some engagement. Poor 
Susannah has been very much neglected in consequence. Elea- 
nor has promised to go when she can, but Dr. Wentworth 
trusted her particularly to me. She sent me a message the 
other day, asking to see me. You see I tell you all my faults, 


THE earl’s daughter. 


97 


as I used to do in the happy old times : sometimes — is it 
wrong to say so ? — I fancy they were happier than these. At 
any rate, I know that I never went to bed then with the same 
burden of unful611ed duties upon my conscience. Some rules 
however I can keep, and some things I hope I do not forget. I 
can never be sufficiently thankful that I was confirmed 
when I was. Preparation would have been so much more diffi- 
cult here, and I think I might have gone on in an unsettled 
way, fancying that confirmation would be a new starting-point, 
and work some great change in itself. Whereas, now I feel 
that all has been done for me which I could expect, and that if 
I do not advance steadily, I must go back without any prospect 
of being roused and warned again. Still I am uncomfortable 
and anxious. The very fact of bringing my present mode of 
life into a definite form, by writing about it, makes it assume a 
more serious aspect. I am sure it must be very faulty in some 
way ; and what will it be when I go to London ?” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

The answer to this letter brought a said disappointment to 
Blanche. The continued illness of Mrs. Howard’s niece made 
her anticipate the probability of going abroad, and would at 
any rate interfere with the visit to Rutherford, which had so 
long been promised. Blanche had not realized before how 
much she had lived upon the thought of this visit,— how 
entirely she had looked forward to it as the means of making 
Mrs. Howard acquainted with the fears and uncertainties which 
she had never yet found courage to mention openly. A week 
spent together would have sufficed to show the loneliness of 
mind, — the absence of sympathy, — the uncongeniality between 
herself and her father upon the one most important point, 
which caused her daily grief. There would have been no need 
of words ; Mrs. Howard would have felt and understood all. 
Now that sinking, decaying isolation of heart must still remain, 
unless she could explain. But what was there to explain? 
What had she to say ? — the loved, petted, idolized daughter of 
a man in whom the world agreed to see no fault except pride, 
— why was she not happy ? 

“ Read it, Eleanor,” she said, putting the letter into her 
friend’s hand, as they met that same afternoon at the parsonage, 

5 


98 


THE earl’s daughter. 


whilst tears, in spite of herself, rose to her eyes. “ There is not 
a shadow of hope for months, — probably not before next year.” 

Eleanor glanced at the full sheet. “ Am I to read it all ?” 

“ If you will ; it is in answer to mine. But I have scarcely 
thought of the advice in it yet.” 

Eleanor took the letter, and Blache walked up and dowm 
the gravel path, and very soon afterwards Mrs. Wentworth 
joined her. Blanche could not conceal that she was out of 
spirits, and there was real kindness in the tone in which Mrs. 
Wentworth addressed her, with a regret for the unpleasant 
news which she had only just heard. Poor Blanche was 
always very alive to sympathy. The tears, which had only 
glistened before, fell fast, and Mi’s. Wentworth was touched by 
her distress ; and opening the French window of a small room, 
which fronted the flower-gai'den, begged her to go^in, and seat 
herself, and be alone if she liked it. “It was her own little 
room,” she said ; “ and no one would come near to disturb 
her.” 

Blanche was only too willing to hide herself from observa- 
tion. She expected Mrs. Wentworth *to follow her ; but she 
did not ; and Blanche leant back on the sofa, and for a time 
indulged her own sad, disappointed fancies. When she at last 
raised her eyes, it was to rest them upon an object which at 
once withdrew her thoughts from, the present trial, and sent 
them far back into the past. On one side of the fireplace hung 
a small painting, the subject of which she recognised in an 
instant. It was her mother’s likeness ; but how different from 
the subdued, sorrow-stricken countenance which dwelt in her 
memory as the only true resemblance of the lovely Countess 
Rutherford. The picture before her represented a young lady, 
who could scarcely, so it seemed, have passed the age of twenty, 
standing on the steps of the castle, dressed in a riding-habit, 
and caressing a splendid horse, which she was evidently pre- 
pared to mount. The face was bright, even mirthfnl ; the eyes 
sparkling with expectation ; the mouth joyous in its expression 
of happiness. There was no striving for effect in the picture ; 
nothing but the simple representation of what must actually 
have been witnessed. Blanche felt, as she looked upon it, that 
the artist who could so have portrayed her mother must have 
drawn her as she actually stood, without forethought or design. 
Five years afterwards, that fair young creature had become the 
pale, serious, care-worn woman, whose beauty was oversha- 
dowed by a fixed, it might almost have been called, a stern 


THE earl’s daughter. 


99 


melanclioly ; and whose fascination was the influence of that 
purity of mind which grief has prepared for heaven. 

The picture, and the thoughts that it called forth, struck a 
chord iu the mind of Lady Blanche, which at that moment was 
peculiarly though painfully sensitive. If her mother had been 
spared, not even Mrs. Howard’s friendship would have been 
needed. And again an undefined doubt, followed by a long- 
ing for a truer insight into that mother’s history, arose within 
her. Her attention was so engrossed, that Mrs. Wentworth 
knocked at the door without being answered, and Blanche 
started when she came in, as if the privacy of her own apart- 
ment had been intruded upon. The attitude in which she was 
standing, leaning upon the mantelpiece and gazing upon the 
picture, told at once the subject of her thoughts. 

“ I did not know you had it,” she said in a tone of gentle 
reproach, as Mrs. Wentworth came up to her. Mrs. Wentworth 
appeared at a loss for a reply. “ And it must be like her,” 
continued Blanche, still with the same manner, as if she was 
vexed at having long been deprived of a great pleasure. 

“ It was like her once, — for a short time,” said Mrs. Went- 
worth, her voice sinking at the last words, as it so often did 
when referring to persons and events connected with other 
days. 

“ I feel it must have been like,” repeated Blanche ; “ more 
like than the bust at the castle ; more like than this,” and she 
unfastened her brooch. 

“ It is not the face by which she was most known,” said Mi's. 
Wentworth, rather indifferently. “ I am sorry you have seen 
it ; it will only disturb your ideas.” 

“ No, no !” exclaimed Blanche. “ I should be so glad if I 
could know her as she was always ; as a child, — as a woman, 
— as what I am now,” she added, with a faint smile. 

A slight contraction was visible in Mrs. Wentworth’s fore- 
head, the effect, perhaps, of some sudden pain ; but she 
answered in her usual, undisturbed manner: — “There is no 
picture of Lady Rutherford as she was at your age, my dear 
Lady Blanche. This was taken three weeks after her marriage.” 

“ And for you ? — was it her gift to you ?” inquired Blanche, 
with eagerness. 

“No, not her gift. It was — ” Mrs. Wentworth paused, 
coughed, and then added quickly, “ it was the earl’s once.” 

“ And he parted with it ?” exclaimed Blanche. “ Oh, Mrs. 
Wentworth ! even to you !” 


100 


THE earl’s ‘ DAUGHTER. 


“ I loved her,” was the reply, uttered sharply and bitterly ; 
and Blanche in an instant reproached herself for her words. 

“ Yes, indeed, I know you did. I know you were her great 
friend. Forgive me : .you had of course a claim. But is there 
no copy, — no other picture like it, taken at that time ? 
Three weeks after her marriage ! How happy she looks ! — my 
own sweet mother !” and Blanche drew near with the impulse 
to press her lips to the cold, lifeless figure. She checked her- 
self however. Mrs. Wentworth’s calmness seemed a reproof 
for indulging anything like excited feeling. “ Perhaps,” she 
said, turning to Mrs. Wentworth, with a smile of singular 
attraction, so full it was of subdued eagerness, and softness, and 
hope, — “perhaps, some day, if I might be permitted, I would 
ask to have it copied. It would be a great treasure. You will 
understand,” she added ; and in her earnestness she took Mrs. 
Wentworth’s hand, as if to entreat by action as well as by 
word. 

To her surprise, Mrs. Wentworth hesitated. “ She would, 
if it were possible ; — anything which could be done should be. 
Lady Blanche might be certain of that. Artists were very 
rarely in the neighbourhood ; but it might be possible, just 
possible.” 

Blanche drew back her hand, — she began her reply proudly, 
and it was an apology ; she had not known that she was asking 
such a favour : — then conscience reproached her for pride shown 
to her mother’s early friend, and she tried to alter her manner. 
Mrs. Wentworth stood passively by her, listening politely. An 
unpleasant silence followed what Blanche said, — a stiffness and 
restraint on both sides ; but it was broken in upon by Mrs. 
Wentworth. 

“ The original is so invaluable to me,” she began. 

Blanche interrupted her : — “ You do not think I could wish 
for that ? No, I assure you, not for a moment.” 

“There are associations connected with it,” pursued Mrs. 
Wentworth, quietly : “ no copy would possess them. I was 
present when the picture was taken. I watched its progress 
from the commencement. The first sketch was made on the 
countess’s birthday, — she was just twenty. It was done by an 
amateur, a friend of Lord Rutherford’s, who was staying at the 
castle. The countess had no idea of his intention ; but I was 
aware of it, and assisted him. I kept her, that is, in conver- 
sation.” 

“ And it was my father’s ?” said Blanche, musingly. 



THE earl’s daughter. 


101 


“ Yes and again Mrs. Wentworth’s manner grew very com 
strained ; and, after a short pause, she said, awkwardly, “ I 
do not think the earl would like to see it ; it might remind 
him — Blanche waited some moments for the continuation of 
the sentence ; when it came, it was so hurried that she could 
scarcely comprehend it : — “ It might remind him,” repeated 
Mrs. Wentworth, “ that is, it would certainly bring to his recol- 
lection : — I think it might annoy him to be spoken to about it,” 
were the concluding words. 

Annoy ! what a strange, cold expression ! But Mrs. Went- 
worth was incomprehensible ; and so difterent on this day to 
what she generally was, so frightened apparently out of her 
usual self-possession ! Blanche felt quite bewildered. She 
turned from the picture, and saying that she was now quite 
rested, and would rejoin Eleanor, was preparing to go, when 
Mrs. Wentworth detained her. 

“ It is not pleasant to me to part in this way,” she said more 
freely ; “ to appear unkind, as I must do. Might I hope that 
you would excuse it ; that you would make allowance for painful 
recollections ? I think you will,” she added, looking kindly at 
Blanche ; “ for your mother’s sake I think you will excuse any 
unintentional awkwardness in one who loved her very dearly.” 

Blanche’s displeasure vanished in an instant. “ My mother’s 
friend must always be privileged,” she said, putting her hand 
into that of Mrs. Wentworth ; “ even if there were anything to 
excuse ; but, indeed, — of course, I can understand.” The 
mutual pressure of the hand was affectionate ; but Blanche was 
relieved when she stepped into the open air : and she had not 
forgotten, — there had been no second offer of procuring a copy 
of the picture. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“Visitors in the drawing-room, my lady,” were the words 
which greeted Blanche, when she and Eleanor reached the 
castle, with the hope of making some arrangements for spending 
the afternoon more profitably than had seemed possible of late. 

“ Friends of my aunt’s, I suppose,” said Blanche, speaking to 
Eleanor in an under tone. “ Is Lady Charlton there ?” she 
inquired, aloud. 


102 


THE earl’s daughter. 


“Yes, my lady : Lady Charlton and Miss Adelaide. The 
carriage has been ordered away.” 

Blanche went into the house. “ We need not appear, I 
imagine,” she said to Eleanor. “ I am supposed to be out ; and 
if we once put ourselves in the way, there is an end to all 
our plans for poor Susannah.” Eleanor agreed that there was 
no absolute necessity ; but she stopped at the foot of the stair- 
case, and wondered who the visitors could be. 

“We shall be waylaid, undoubtedly,” said Blanche, trying to 
hasten her. 

“ Hush ! who is that speaking ?” asked Eleanor, listening. 

“ Sir Hugh scolding Pearson, or Pearson scolding Sir Hugh,” 
said Blanche laughing. “ Really, Eleanor, you are determined 
to be caught.” Blanche spoke in jest, but her words might 
possibly have been true, for just then the drawing-room door 
opened and a number of voices were heard. 

“ We shall be seen if we attempt to go up-stairs now,” said 
Eleanor decidedly ; but she had no one to hear her observation, 
for Blanche had already escaped to her room. She sat there 
for some little time very patiently. Eleanor, of course, had 
waited the one moment too long, and been detained ; it was 
provoking, but there was no help for it, and Blanche took out 
Mrs. Howard’s letter, in order to occupy the intervening time. 
It was curiously appropriate to that precise moment. So much 
of it was upon the subject of daily duties, daily interruptions, 
and the spirit in which they should be borne. 

“ I am not in the least surprised at your complaints of desul- 
toriness, my dear child,” began Mrs. Howard. “All persons 
situated as you are must in a certain way be desultory, or, more 
correctly, they must I suppose appear to be so ; for it does not 
follow that you should be so really. When you laid down 
your strict rules, before you went away, I was convinced in my 
own mind that you would find a difficulty in carrying them out, 
but I did not like to dishearten you, since a plan of life is in 
itself good, even necessary, if we wish to discipline our minds 
properly. The great mischief of such plans is when the fulfil- 
ment of them is too rigidly insisted upon, and is raised into a 
virtue in itself, instead of being considered as merely a stepping- 
stone. However, I need not descant upon the danger of too 
much regularity ; your difficulty seems to lie quite in the other 
direction. Naturally it would be so, for you cannot possibly be 
entirely mistress of your own time, and you certainly are bound 
in duty to consider the comfort of your guests before your own. 


THE earl’s daughter. 103 

% 

But there must be a limit to every duty, humanly speaking, 
or it will encroach upon another, and become a fault. And 
this limit, I think, is to be found by having a true sense of our 
position, not only in life but in our families. As a daughter, 
you are of course bound to obey ; but, as the mistress of a 
household, you are equally bound to take the lead, and to set 
an example of order and strictness. I doubt if you are likely 
to remember this sufficiently. Your mode of life must in a 
great measure give the tone to your whole household, and one 
of the most important features in all families, especially in one 
which like your own possesses influence from rank and wealth, 
is that it should be under subservience to a law of duty and not 
of pleasure. . I do not mean that it is possible to make laws for 
every hour, or every individual ; but it should never be left in 
doubt that there - are claims which must be attended to ; em- 
ployments which are never to be neglected except for some very 
obvious reason. If your mother had been spared, these respon- 
sibilities would not have been yours as yet ; but you are pecu- 
liarly circumstanced, and there are duties incumbent upon you 
which seldom fall to the lot of persons of your age. I wish I 
could give you my ideas more in detail, for I am afraid I shall 
not satisfy you ; but what I mean is something of this kind — I 
suppose you breakfast late, but that need not prevent you from 
rising early. If you set the example the servants must in a 
measure follow it, so one great temptation in an easy life will 
be checked. I think you would find it useful not to shut your- 
self up entirely in your room, but to let your servants see what 
your habits are — as example is better than reproof, and indeed 
reproof can scarcely, I imagine, be in the catalogue of your 
duties at present. Then with regard to your mornings — you 
intended, I know, to study regularly ; and certainly it seems to 
me that you ought to do so. Could you not manage to give a 
certain fixed time to your aunt and cousins, and any other 
guests, directly after breakfast, and then let it be understood 
that you wish to have an hour or two to yourself ? I hardly 
think you would give offence, and your absence would by 
degrees be taken as a matter of course. Perhaps, also, you 
might be able to arrange to practise with your cousins, as you 
say they are both musical ; but then, my dear Blanche, you 
must take the lead. If your cousin Adelaide likes, what you 
-call, a butterfly life, it does not at all follow that you are to 
humour her : and though she may be some years older than 
yourself, that will not prevent vour being of great use in keep- 


104 


THE earl’s daughter. 


ing her steadily to one object, if you show you are determined 
to be steady yourself. So, again, I would beg of you if possi- 
ble to decide upon seeing the poor people on fixed days ; and, 
when these days come, say you have an engagement, and make 
any plans for drives, visits, &c., for your friends, independent of 
yourself. Your reading, also, may be a great help to you as 
regards system and regularity, if you can avoid the temptation 
of beginning every new book that is thrown in your way — a 
temptation which, I assure you, I can quite sympathise with. 
We cannot always be studying history and metaphysics, but 
when we do indulge ourselves in light reading it should be for 
some specified reason — at certain times, and under certain limita- 
tions. I really believe that half the mischief of novels, those I 
mean which are innocent, arises from their being so enticing 
that we are induced to read them at wrong times. It may 
seem a very slight fault to skim half a dozen pages more 
when duty calls us another way ; but I am sure it injures the 
conscience and untones the mind. If we can read a very 
interesting book up to a certain moment, and then reso- 
lutely close it because we have something else to do, the 
relaxation can scarcely have done us harm. I am saying 
nothing about higher rules and motives, because we have 
talked of them so often before, and I am sure from your letter 
that you have not forgotten them. 

“ This constant self-discipline, no doubt, requires energy and 
watchfulness, but what is to be done without them ? Especially 
what can be done by persons situated as you are, having scarcely 
any external restraints upon their inclinations ? You must be a 
law to yourself if you wish to avoid that wretched fi-ittering away 
of life which is the misery of hundreds of persons of your age at 
the present moment. 

“ All I have said is of course subject to one proviso — that 
your father should not object. If he were to insist, or even evi- 
dently to desire, that you should give yourself up entirelyTo your 
aunt and cousins, you can but submit; only here again you 
would find a law, and therefore satisfaction. It is not what 
we do, but why we do it, that is of consequence. How often we 
say to oui'selves, speaking of things of this world, ‘ It does not 
signify, it is all in the day’s work ?’ — and so, neither, does it sig- 
nify in the concerns of another world, whether we are called 
upon to rule a kingdom or pick up stones from the road, if only 
what we do is work ; work that shall turn to account in the 
reckoning of the long day of life ; work for Him to whom nothing 
is great and therefore nothing can be little.” 


THE earl’s daughter. 


105 


Blanche refolded her letter and sat for some time thinking 
over it. .She could not at once fully enter into Mrs. Howard’s 
views ; or, at least, she could not at once see that they were 
practicable. Yet they had given her an idea, a principle 
which might materially assist her in the little difficulties that 
often perplexed her. Blanche’s mind was resolute and decisive. 
This was not generally supposed ; but those who were in the 
habit of interpreting her conduct, too often did so without the 
least knowledge of the real clue to it. Lady Charlton saw her 
amiable, agreeable, and attractive, and called her “ a sweet girl 
and Mrs. Wentworth understood, from conversation with Eleanor, 
that she was very much fascinated by Lady Charlton, and ac- 
customed to follow out her cousin’s wishes, and, in consequence, 
was likely to lead a desultory objectless life ; and supposed 
therefore that she was too gentle to be strong-mi\ided. Lord 
Rutherford indeed understood her better ; perhaps, if he had not 
done so, he never could have given her his full affection ; for, 
like her, he required respect to bring out his feelings, though it 
was respect for the intellect, not for the heart ; and one of the 
most satisfactory discoveries he had made in the progress of 
their intercourse was that she could have an opinion and a will 
of her own. But, even to him, it would have been a matter of 
surprise to witness the immediate effect of Mrs. Howard’s ad- 
vice. He could not have understood the working of a mind 
which obeyed conscience as it were instinctively, and to which 
the bare possibility of a duty suggested an instant endeavour for 
its performance. Blanche required only to perceive that Mrs. 
Howard was right in her views, and of this a very little consi- 
deration convinced her, and then her thoughts turned to the 
practical mode of carrying them out, quickly, sincerely, without 
delay, or reservation, or excuse, and in perfect simplicity ; not 
at all considering it necessary to guard against observation, or 
to hide anything which she intended to do; but supposing 
other persons would regard her duties as she did herself, as mat- 
ters of course. She had already solved several difficult ques- 
tions, when Eleanor’s quick step was heard in the gallery, an i 
scarcely pausing to knock at the door she entered the room with 
the exclamation : — 

“ My dear Blanche ! I am so — so sorry ; I really am vexed to 
have kept you ; but — ” 

“But if people will put themselves in the way they must 
be caught,” said Blanche laughing ; “ however, we can go now.” 

“No, I beg your pardon, that was what I came to say,” con- 
6 * 


106 


THE earl’s daughter. 


tinued Eleanor, hurriedly. “ I am afraid we can’t go this after- 
noon. Lady Charlton wishes me so very much to stay ; they 
are going out, — a large party : she quite pressed my joining 
them. I am to drive with your cousin Adelaide.” 

Blanche could not conceal her vexation. “ And does my 
aunt expect me to go too ?” she inquired. 

“ Oh ! no, I assure you, I was very careful. I did not men- 
tion your name. No one thinks you are in the house. They 
suppose I had come to the castle to look for you ; and now I 
have left them with the excuse, that I must write a note to 
mamma to tell her what I intend doing.” 

“ And shall you write ?” asked Blanche. 

“ Why no, upon second thoughts, I don’t see there is a neces- 
sity. I was to spend the afternoon with you, but whether I go 
for a walk or a drive must be a question of indifference.” The 
latter part of the sentence was spoken in that tone of decision 
which is sometimes used to conceal a doubt. Blanche, without 
making any observation in reply, put aside the writing materials 
which she was placing for Eleanor’s use. 

“ Why will you not go with us, Blanche ?” continued Eleanor. 
“ Why can you not wait till to-morrow ?” 

“ Because to-morrow will be like to-day,” said Blanche : “ it 
will have its own duties.” 

“ But I could walk with you then ; I promise that I will not 
put myself in the way of temptation again.” 

“ Then it was temptation,” said Blanche, a little reproachfully. 

“ Perhaps so ; it might have been : but I see no harm in it. 
Whether you go alone to Susannah, or whether I am with you, 
cannot make much difference to her.” 

“ But it does to me,” said Blanche, unable to repress a feel- 
ing of vexation that Eleanor should prefer a drive with a party 
of comparative strangers to a walk with herself. 

Eleanor laughed, and declared that Blanche must be jealous 
of her cousin Adelaide ; but there was self-dissatisfaction be- 
neath her assumed indifference, and she brought forward a 
number of excuses for her determination. “ Lady Charlton 
pressed it so much,” she said, “it was almost impossible to 
refuse ; in fact, I suspect she wants me as a chaperone. They 
had not settled how it was all to be arranged. Charles was 
there, striving hard for the honour of driving your cousin, 
himself ; but Lady Charlton had evidently set her face against 
it. So, you see, I may be useful.” * 

Blanche did her best to enter into Eleanor’s gaiety, but she 


THE earl’s daughter. 


107 


could not succeed very well ; for, as she began to think of what 
was to be done, she saw that all her plans were disarranged ; 
and Eleanor soon perceived it, also. 

At the moment of accepting the invitation to join Lady 
Charlton’s party, she had not remembered that Blanche could 
not well walk as far as Susannah’s cottage alone. “ However, 
the next day would do just as well,” she said, “ and Blanche 
had better make up her mind to give up duty for that after- 
noon, and go with the rest.” 

This Blanche declined ; since she was not wanted, she pre- 
ferred having the time to herself • “ I suppose you could not 
send an excuse to my aunt,” she suggested. 

But Eleanor negatived the idea instantly, and after again 
begging Blanche to forgive her, and promising to behave better 
for the future, hastened away. 


' CHAPTER XIX 

Blanche stood at the window, watching the party, which 
was collecting in front of the castle. She saw Eleanor join 
them, and converse a little with Adelaide ; and, after some 
delay, they both seated themselves in the pony carriage, and 
drove off — closely followed by Mr. Wentworth on horseback. 
Blanche could almost have repented having refused to accom- 
pany them ; since there was no apparent obstacle in the way. 
But she felt that she had done what was best for her own mind, 
and there was great pleasure in the quietness and solitude now 
so unusual ; and when the rumbling of the wheels and the echo 
of the horses’ noofs died away in the distance, she lingered 
still by the open window to enjoy the unbroken silence within 
the house ; and the low, soothing, mingled sounds of nature 
without. They are rare and precious moments, which are thus 
snatched from the whirl of life and spent in stillness and alone. 
Even when they are not devoted to direct meditation, and appear 
too fleeting to be productive of good, they yet tend to give 
us a knowledge of the realities which encompass us. By the 
depth of their solemnity and repose, they remind us that 
beneath Jbhe surface of this weary, working existence, there is 
another world — another, and an enduring life ; — imaged in the 
unchanging sky and the returning sun, and the ever renewed 


108 


THE earl’s daughter. 


beauty of the trees and flowers, and the steadfastness of the 
everlasting hills ; and, if our hearts are open to the truth, they 
may sometimes teach us to remember, that as in far off years 
the glorious temple rose silently in the city of Jerusalem, neither 
axe nor hammer nor tool giving warning or notice of the work, 
so the more glorious temple — the Church of the Living God, — 
is at this moment rising unperceived in the midst of a tumultu- 
ous world ; each stone quarried and fashioned by the sharp edge 
of sorrow and the keen stroke of adversity, until perfected and 
prepared, it is fitted for that destined position which shall be 
the place of its rest for eternity. 

Thoughts something like these filled the mind of Blanche as 
she sat alone, enjoying the unwonted quietness of the summer’s 
afternoon. She had early learnt to look upon what is, not 
what seems to be ; but, during the last few weeks, the truth had 
been at times overlooked. Notwithstanding the dissatisfaction 
expressed to Mrs. Howard, she had found much enjoyment in 
the society of Lady Charlton and her cousins ; perhaps too 
much, for it had unconsciously relaxed the strict, watchful tone 
of her character. She perceived this now. Mrs. Howard’s 
letter had given the first warning ; and this short interval of 
reflection repeated it. Again she reverted to the question of 
duty, but less practically than before. There is a close connec- 
tion between the mystery of what we see and the mystery of 
what we are ; and when Blanche looked upon the glorious 
landscape beneath her, and the immensity of the sky above her, 
she was carried away far beyond the immediate consideration 
of daily pursuits into thoughts and speculations for which no 
answer could be found. Metaphysical difficulties suggested 
themselves ; questions upon the origin of duty — its binding 
power — the irremediable consequences of its neglect — the very 
fact of its existence, involving the possibility of evil ; and this 
again opening a new path for the reason to travel, till it stood 
upon the brink of a precipice, and recoiled shuddering from its 
own presumption. There are many amongst the young whom 
such thoughts harass when it is little suspected — many, who 
are armed with no shield of faith for their protection. We may 
well pray for them, for their peril is great ! 

“ Is that you, Blanche ?” exclaimed a voice from below, as 
Blanche still stood at the window. 

Blanche started. “ Maude ! alone ! I thought I saw you 
with the rest.” 

“ No, thank you; I am not a gregarious animal. And such 


THE earl’s daughter. 


109 


a set too, as they were ! — just fitted for Adelaide. But come 
down, I want you.” 

Blanche delayed. She had not settled what she was going 
to do ; but, certainly, she had no intention of spending the 
afternoon with Maude. 

“ Come, you must come,” repeated Maude, impatiently ; “ we 
will have a German lesson. I promised you one. We will sit 
upon the south terrace ; it is deliciously warm.” 

Blanche went to another window, from which the terrace 
could be seen. It certainly was a most inviting spot, with the 
bright slanting rays of the sun upon it, and the flowers border- 
ing it radiant in beauty ; whilst, below, were contrasted the 
deep shadows of the trees on the bank, and the glittering lines 
of light which flickered on the sides of the distant hills. She 
paused for a moment to consider ; and it seemed right to go ; 
— right, since her afternoon was interrupted, to take advantage 
of Maude’s offer. 

“ We will read,” said Maude, holding up a book ; “ only - 
make haste.” 

Blanche threw a shawl round her and ran down stairs. 
Maude met her at the hall-door. She looked quite satisfied, — 
an unusual thing for her, — and Blanche was glad that she had 
assented. 

“ I fancied I was quite alone,” observed Maude, as she sat 
dowm on a bench in the shade. “ Why did you not go with 
the rest ?” 

“ I was not asked,” replied Blanche ; “ that is,” observing 
Maude’s look of surprise, “ I did not put myself in the way of 
being asked. I meant to have gone out with Eleanor.” 

“Charity visiting, I suppose?” said' Maude, with a slight 
sneer. “ Well ! you are very good, Blanche ; but, depend upon 
it, it will be better for you to spend the afternoon in reading 
‘ Egmont ’ with me.” 

“ Egmont ! Goethe’s Egmont ! ” exclaimed Blanche hastily 
and with doubt. 

“Yes. Why not?” 

“ Goethe ! ” again repeated Blanche. 

“ Well ! ” and Maude looked up almost angrily. “ What is 
the harm of Goethe ? ” . . „ 

“ I don’t know myself. I have never read anything of Jiis.” 

“ Only the name frightens you. Now, ray dear Blanche, do for 
once have an opinion of your own. Don’t be a Quixote and con- 
vert a windmill into a giant, and then set to work to fight it.” 


110 


THE earl’s daughter. 


“ But tlie world is the Quixote,” said Blanche, laughing, “ not 
I. I only go by what I hear.” 

“ The world ! that is some few bigoted individuals who con- 
demn every creed which is not cut and squared after their own 
pattern. Your father does not say so, I am sure.” 

“ No ; he has often promised to read part of Goethe with 
me. Only part,” she added, laying her hand upon the book, 
as Maude with a triumphant smile opened it. 

“ Egmont is a part — a very grand part, perfectly unexcep- 
tionable.” 

“ Are you sure ? ” said Blanche. “ I think ”' — and she raised 
her eyes to her cousin’s face with an expression of child-like con- 
fidence ; “ I think I might trust you.” 

The sneer which still rested upon Maude’s lips vanished 
directly. She turned to Blanche, and said eagerly, “Thank 
you ; yes, of course you may trust. Whatever I might 
read myself, I could never ask you to listen to a word which 
might offend you.” 

“ But Goethe,” said Blanche, as if speaking aloud her own 
thoughts ; “ there is such a prejudice against him — there must 
be something wrong — something dangerous.” 

“ Dangerous ! absurd folly ! ” and Maude turned the leaves 
quickly in her irritation, exclaiming — as she went on, “ The fear 
of weak, narrow-minded cowards — false to their own convic- 
tion — envious of a great mind. Blanche, you must not be one 
of them.” 

“ I hope I should be always true to my own convictions,” 
answered Blanche ; “ but it is very possible that you may call 
them narrow-minded. I think you would,” she added, boldly. 

Maude fixed upon her a steady, penetrating gaze, and said 
slowly, “ I like that ; better be narrow-minded and firm, than 
narrow-minded and weak. You shall read Egmont.” 

“ Tell me its faults first,” said Blanche. 

“ Faults ! it has none. It is the most wonderfully true, noble, 
inspiriting — but, you are a coward, after all and she threw 
down the book and stood gazing over the edge of the terrace. 

Blanche went up to her. “I hope I am not a coward, 
Maude ; but we all know the weak points of our own minds. 
Goethe’s works must have something in them which does harm 
to some persons — I may possibly be one. Tell me if there is 
anything in Egmont which is generally objected to.” 

“ By whom ? ” said Maude, sarcastically. “ By Mrs. Smith 
■ — Brown — White — Green — Black ? ” 

“ By persons whose opinions I am bound to respect.” 


THE E A li L ’ S D A U G [I T E R . 


Ill 


“ By yourself, rather,” exclaimed Maude, impatiently. “ Do 
forget such folly, Blanche, and judge for yourself. As for the 
story, it is matter of history ; though with Goethe, it is not 
history, hut actual, breathing reality. It is Egmont as he was, 
as he lived, and talked, and thought ; with his gallant, chivalric 
bearing — his openness, generosity, disinterestedness, love of 
freedom, fearlessness of the world’s censure. One must have 
loved him, one must have been Clarchen, who died with him.” 

Blanche repeated quickly, “ Died with him ? ” 

“ Yes ; for him — with him ; she loved him too well to survive 
him.” 

The next words were uttered by Blanche hurriedly, with an 
effort ; “ Who committed suicide, do you mean ? ” 

“ Pshaw ! yet I might have known it, it is all education. 
Suicide! Yes, what people call suicide. She kills herself. 
You are shocked. What a mistake to have told you ! It is all 
spoilt now; but you shall read it still; and tell me whether 
Goethe cannot ennoble such a death.” 

Maude put her arm round her cousin to draw her back to the 
seat, but Blanche resisted. “ I am not afraid to read it,”, she 
said ; “ but it will give me pain.” 

“ Yes ; that pain which is pleasure, — the pain of sympathy 
and admiration.” 

“ That was not what I meant. I am sure I should admire it, 
but I could not sympathize with it.” 

“ Not with Egmont ? — not with Clarchen ? ” • ’ 

“ Not with suicide,” said Blanche, quietly. 

“ Pooh !— nonsense ! Why will you harp upon the same 
subject ? Of course, I do not admire suicide. I allow that it 
is a crime, jper se ; a great crime if you will ; but I do say, 
and I will always say, that Goethe sanctifies it by the power of 
his genius ; that such love as Clarchen’s, is the love of a noble, 
self-devoting spirit ; that it is beautiful, and true love.” 

“ No ; no ! ” exclaimed Blanche, eagerly. 

“ Not beautiful 1 Not true ! Then what is so ? ” and Maude’s 
eyes flashed with irritation. 

“ Love which lives through sorrow,” said Blanche, her voice 
slightly trembling. “Not love which dies to escape it.” 

Maude laid down the book which she held in her hand, 
whilst waiting for a further explanation of her cousin’s ideas, 
and fixed upon her a cool, patient gaze, which was peculiarly 
repelling. 

Blanche turned away her eyes and went on ; “You asked 


112 


TtlE earl’s daughter. 


me once about my notions and theories,” she said, “ and I did 
not like to tell you ; I am afraid I was wrong, but you must 
forgive me. I don’t think I have what you would call theories ; 
but I have principles. And, since you are kind enough to read 
with me, and talk to me, I should like you to know them, 
because then we shall understand each other better. And, 
another reason — they are true principles to me ; and when you 
talk, it seems as if you were trying to uproot them. But it • 
would be unkind to do so,” she added, very earnestly, as she 
remembered the maze of perplexities in which but a short time 
before she had been involved, when suffering her thoughts to 
wander without check or guidance. “ Even, if you could suc- 
ceed, you would only be making me wretched, for they are my 
hope and comfort — ^my happiness.” And, in her energy, 
Blanche clasped her hands, and drew up her slender, graceful 
figure in an attitude of strength and power, which made the 
half sneer upon Maude’s face melt into a smile of admiration. 

“ And these thoughts and principles are what ? ” asked 
Maude, patronizingly. 

Blanche pressed her hands more closely together, and still 
averting her eyes from her cousin, answered, “They are what 
you may call narrow-minded prejudices — they are religion.” 

“ Religion ! — yes ; certainly ; — extremely right,” said Maude, 
still in the same manner’ “ I hope I am religious too.” 

Blanche was for an instant distressed and perplexed. 

“ My^dear child !” said Maude, speaking in a light playful 
way, which made Blanche shrink at the recollection of her own 
enthusiasm ; “ my poor Blanche ! what an excitement you have 
worked yourself into ! I declare you look quite ill.” 

Blanche with difficulty resisted the temptation to run away. 
“ Thank you,” she said, “ I am not ill. I did not mean to be 
excited. I merely wished to say to you why I never could 
agree in your admiration of Egmont.” 

“ Because of that naughty Cliirchen,” observed Maude ; “ but 
we will forget her ; we will choose Schiller, if you like it, 
and give up Goethe for the present. By-and-by, when you have 
seen a little of the world besides St. Ebbe’s, and this grim old 
castle, you will not be so much shocked at him.” 

Blanche drew back from the caress with which these words 
were about to be accompanied. “ I never can wish that time to 
come,” she said. “ If it did, I should have learnt to bear with 
that which my reason, as well as my faith, tells me is utterly 
false.” 


THE earl’s daughter. 


113 


There was a silence of some moments. 

Maude appeared struck with the firmness of her cousin’s 
tone. She dropped the patronizing air which she had assumed, 
and said, “ Goethe’s principles cannot be false, for they will find 
an echo in the heart of every one ‘who can admire generosity 
and devotedness, and an undying, unchanging affection. ” 

“I have not read his works,” was all the answer which 
Blanche made. She seemed weary of the argument. 

Maude again had recourse to the volume by her side. Open- 
ing it towards the end, she read a few sentences to herself. “ I 
cannot let you have such notions, Blanche,” she exclaimed, after 
a short pause ; “ they are beneath you. You must read, — you 
must admire.” 

“ As I should admire a dream or a fairy tale,” said Blanche, 
smiling. 

“ That is what I don’t understand ; it is the only thing I can’t 
understand in you,” said Maude. “ What do you mean by a 
dream ? Patriotism, the love of liberty, generosity, love, are 
realities^ : you can feel them yourself ; I know, I am sure, you 
'.can.” 

“ I hope I can,” replied Blanche. “ I think them very real, 
very lovely, and admirable.” 

“ And therefore true,” continued Maude ; “ true, that is the 
point, — that is the object to be sought after, desired, striven, 
prayed for !” She spoke earnestly, her dark grey eyes kindling, 
and her colour heightened. 

“ Yes, truth ; it is the one thing needful,” replied Blanche : 
but Mrs. toward says that a half truth must be the greatest 
of falsehoods.” 

“ What ? say it again,” exclaimed Maude. 

Blanche repeated the words. 

“ Goethe’s truths are half truths, you mean,” continued Maude. 

“ I think they must be ; like the half truths of heathenism, 
which led men to idolatry.” 

“ But a whole truth, who can find it ? — who can be certain 
of it ?” said Maude in a musing tone. 

“ God is truth,” replied Blanche, timidly and reverently. 

“ Yes,” and Maude’s manner became reverent also ; “ but men 
also are divine — in their noblest feelings, their highest desires.” 

“ We were made in the‘ image of God,” observed Blanche : 
“ but the image is defaced.” 

“ Granted, of course. Defaced ; but not utterly ruined — not 
lost.” 


114 


THE earl’s daughter. 


“ No, indeed not,” exclaimed Blanche, enthusiastically ; “ not 
lost, — still to be restored, renewed again ; but it must be after 
the perfect original.” 

“ I am tired of symbols,” said Maude, hastily. 

“ Still, may I tell you, will you not think me very presump- 
tuous if I say what such notions as I believe Goethe’s to be 
appear to me to resemble ?” continued Blanche *. “ those I mean 
which make persons interesting, and in a certain way good, 
without being Christians. I must use an illustration 5 I cannot 
explain myself else. It is as if he had accidentally met with 
separate fragments of what had once been the copy of a perfect 
statue ; and because he admired each portion separately, sup- 
posed that by uniting them all together the w'hole would be 
beautiful.” 

“ Of course, of course,” interrupted Maude ; “ they could not 
be less beautiful when put together than they were before, sup- 
posing they were all the work of the same hand.” 

“ But if parts were wanting,” continued Blanche : “ or if 
Goethe had never seen the perfect original, and therefore, instead 
of combining them according to the first design, formed a figure 
after the imagination of < his own heart — distorted and defi- 
cient, — there would be no beauty in the whole, though every 
separate member might be perfect.” 

“ Well !” was all Maude would say. 

“ I think, — it seems to me,” continued Blanche, hesitating, 
“ that this is something like such principles as you tell me are 
to be found in Egmont. The feelings described may be good 
and true separately ; but they can scarcely be so when they 
are put together, because love and obedience to God are 
wanting.” 

“ No,” exclaimed Maude ; “ Goethe, in Egmont at least, 
would make men obedient to the principles implanted in them 
by nature and conscience. You would not wish for a better 
guide than conscience.” 

“ It must be the conscience of the Bible, then,” said Blanche ; 
“ not the conscience of a fallen nature. This is setting myself 
up as being able to decide very weighty questions,” she added, 
blushing ; “ but I have gained all my ideas from Mrs. Howard. 
^Thoughts used to come into my head and puzzle me, and I used 
to talk to her about them ; and she made them clearer.” 

“ I should like to argue* her into admiring Goethe,” said 
Maude, “ that would be a triumph.” 

“ Impossible !” exclaimed Blanche ; “ that is, to make her 


THE earl’s daughter. 


115 


approve would be impossible ; or admire either, in one sense 
because she never admires what is not true.” 

“ True ! true !” repeated Maude to herself. “ If one could 
only find what is true !” 

“We are not true ourselves,” said Blanche, “ because of our 
evil nature ; so that if there is truth anywhere, it must be in 
something distinct from ourselves.” 

“ Yes ; I suppose it may be so,” replied Maude, doubtfully. 

“ In the Bible, then ?” continued Blanche ; and finding that 
Maude did not contradict her, she added, “ Goethe and the Bible 
would not agree ; therefore Goethe’s principles must be untrue. 
Am I very obstinate ?” 

“ You are very provoking,” replied Maude, tossing the book 
from her. “ I will never ask you to read Egmont again ; you 
may be quite certain of that.” 

She spoke with irritation, but Blanche fancied that some 
portion of it was assumed. “I did not say that I would not 
read it, and admire it too,” she said ; “ but yon must let me try 
and think that Clarchen was a heathen.” 

Maude looked sullen. She went forward, picked up the 
book, and turned towards the house. Just then Lord Ruther- 
ford came upon the terrace ; he had been riding, and had re- 
turned earlier than he expected. Maude’s countenance struck 
him as he passed her, and, when he joined Blanche, he began 
to inquire what was the matter. 

Blanche did not venture to tell him the wdiole. She had an 
intuitive perception of the points upon which they might differ, 
and avoided them carefully. Diference with him was very 
unlike difference with her cousin ; it involved so much more. 
And then she was afraid of him ; afraid of his cool, keen 
sarcasm ; especially afraid, because she could not feel, as she did 
when conversing with Maude, that, however at variance their 
sentiments might be, both were earnestly seeking after truth. 


CHAPTER XX. 

“ And you were not inclined to be of your aunt’s party, 
then ?” began the earl, after Blanche had briefly told him that 
she had just finished an argument- with Maude, which left them 
apparently both where they had begun. 

“ The party was formed before I came back from the pai*son- 


116 


THE earl’s daughter. 


age,” replied Blanche ; “ and I meant to have gone for a walk 
with Eleanor.” 

“ You are wonderfully fond of the parsonage, Blanche. Are 
you in love with Mrs. Wentworth yet ?” 

A remembrance of the morning interview came to Blanche’s 
mind, and she answered quickly, “ Oh, no ! not at all in love.” 
Adding, to soften her words, “ she requires, I think, to be known 
well.” 

“Better than I ever knew her,” observed the earl, with 
asperity. “ She is one of those chill pieces of propriety whose 
very presence freezes one’s blood. Marvellous it is to me that 
she should have such children. Miss Wentworth is superior in 
every way ; and her brother is a very handsome, agreeable man.” 

“ They are a handsome family,” observed Blanche. “ Dr. 
W ent worth ” 

The earl interrupted her : “ My dear, you were going out ; 
into the village, I suppose.” 

“ Yes, some distance ; but I could not go alone, and the 
pony-carriage was given up for my aunt.” 

“ Well ! I will go with you ; you are not tired, I suppose ?” 

Blanche thought of Maude. She fancied that it was unkind 
to leave her. 

Her father drew near the steps which led down the bank. 
“ You are going, — which way ? Can I help you ?” 

Blanche mentioned her cousin’s name ; but the earl quickly 
negatived the idea of asking her to join them, ending, however, 
with, “ unless you particularly wish it, my love. I would have 
you do whatever you like.” 

Blanche did not make a second proposal. She ran lightly 
down the steps, and taking her father’s arm, they followed the 
path which led them through the underwood, and amongst the 
scattered trees, down to the edge of the stream. A rough 
bridge was thrown over it, and Blanche, leading the way, with- 
out thinking it necessary to explain where she was going, 
crossed it, and pursued the path over a green field to the foot 
of the steep, broken ground which bordered it. Lord Ruther- 
ford walked on in silence, till Blanche began to ascend the bank, 
when he stopped, and rallying her upon her forgetfulness of his 
age, asked her where she intended to carry him. 

“ Only a little way, — quite a little way by this bad road,” 
replied Blanche : “ we shall be in a straight forward lane, when 
we are at the top of the bank. But, papa, I will not go on if 
you had rather not. I was going to see Susannah Dyer.” 


THE earl’s daughter. 


117 


“ Susannah who ? Oh ! a poor woman, I suppose.” 

“ A blind girl,” said Blanche. 

“ Blind ! poor thing ! — extremely sad. Blanche, my darhng,, 
you will sit down, and rest first.” 

The afternoon was passing rapidly, and Blanche’s hopes of 
visiting Susannah Dyer were becoming very slight ; but she sat 
down obediently. 

“Susannah was confirmed when I was,” she commenced 
again. 

“ Oh, yes ; I recollect you told me before. There is no harm 
in your going to see her : you like it, I suppose ; and you have 
not much amusement.” 

Blanche smiled to herself at the word amusement, for it was 
not what she generally associated with her visits to the poor. 

“ Your aunt has been talking to me,” continued the earl, fol- 
lowing, as he always did, the train of his own ideas. “ She 
says I bury you here : it is not the season for London, or she 
would make me take you there directly.” 

“ Me ! London ! Oh ! papa, I am quite happy where I am.” 

“ Happy in your ignorance, my love ! I am glad you are : 
but ignorance will not do all one’s life ; and you must be con- 
demned to London, by-and-by, I am afraid. Condemned to a 
gay life, — balls, f<&t«s, concerts.” 

“ They sound pleasant,” said Blanche. “ I suppose I shall 
like them ; but Mrs. Wentworth tells Eleanor that she should 
not like her to be placed within reach of them.” 

“ Mrs. Wentworth is not your guide, my love. I mean, you 
are not at all called upon to take her views. I don’t wish you 
to do so. I like you to form your own.” 

Blanche was checked, and afraid to say how much she was 
inclined to respect Mrs. Wentworth’s views. It was always the 
case when conversing with her father. With all his partiality 
— his devotion, it might be called — his eagerness to gain her 
confidence — insensibly, he repelled her. She was always 
choosing subjects for conversation, thinking whether he would 
be pleased. There is no real freedom where this feeling 
existe. 

“ Your aunt,” again began the earl, “ is very different from 
Mrs. Wentworth. She is a person of large, comprehensive 
mind, and very unprejudiced. You must find the difference in 
talking to them.” 

“ My aunt is much the more agreeable,” said Blanche. 

“ And her opinions are much the more valuable,” continued 


118 


THE earl’s daughter. 


the earl. “ You could not find a safer friend to introduce you 
into the world. She understands the ‘ thing so well ; you 
cannot possibly make mistakes if you follow her advice. She 
has an intuitive perception of right and wrong in all cases.” 

“ I think she has very good, high notions,” said Blanche. 

“Yes; very good, very high ; what all persons should have,” 
said the earl quickly. “ But I was thinking of society. I have 
perfect confidence in your good taste, my child ; yet you might, 
in ignorance, oflfend against the customs of the world, if you had 
no one to direct you. And it is a woman’s direction which is 
required ; no man could understand what is wanted. I should 
be quite satisfied if I thought your first introduction into society 
would be under your aunt’s chaperonage.” 

“ And will it not be ?” inquired Blanche, in a tone of surprise. 

“ There is a doubt. Sir Hugh has odd whims, and some- 
times fancies he can only live abroad. I think it possible he 
will not remain in England more than a twelvemonth ; if so, it 
would be my great wish to give you a little insight into life 
soon. You will be more than seventeen in the spring.” 

“ Yes ; but that seems a long time oft"” said Blanche. 

“ You might enjoy a season in town, then,” continued the 
earl, “ and your aunt might be with us ; “ and, in the mean time, 
I think it would be desirable to show you something more than 
the routine of our present life. Your cousins would like it, so 
would your aunt, and it might induce her to remain with us longer. 
She had an idea the other day of persuading Sir Hugh to go 
down to his own place ; and I had some difficulty in talking her 
out of it. It would be an absurdity. Sir Hugh never rests there : 
he no sooner feels himself tied down to a place, than he is in an 
agony to leave it.” 

“ But is it not right for persons to live on their own pro- 
perty,” inquired Blanche ; “ and take care of- it and of the people, 
as you do ?” 

“ Right, if they like it, my dear : but Sir Hugh’s steward 
does infinitely more good at Senilhurst than Sir Hugh himself. 
However, the question now is not about him. What shall you 
say, Blanche, to an importation of visitors ?” 

Blanche laughed and blushed, and thought it might be 
pleasant, quite pleasant, if only her aunt could be the lady of 
the castle instead of herself. 

“ There we must differ,” replied the earl, turning upon her a 
look of fond admiration. “ There is but one who can fitly fill 
that station, — only one,” he repeated, in a lower tone. Jhen, 


THE earl’s daughter. 


119 


after a short pause, he resumed, “ And will you like it, Blanche ? 
that was my doubt. Tell me, — let me know,” he continued, 
seeing that she was uncertain what to reply. 

Blanche was obliged to speak ; she never dared to delay an 
answer when her father’s manner was impetuous ; but she could 
only repeat that it might be pleasant. This she saw did not 
satisfy him, and making an effort to be candid, she added, “ I 
cannot be sure till I have tried ; and I do not like to say that I 
wish it, because I think it might do me harm.” 

“ Harm ?” the earl turned to her hastily. 

“ I might like it too well,” continued Blanche, her voice fal- 
tering a little, as, with an instinctive feeling that it would be 
better not to provoke any discussion upon duty ; she added, 
“ To-day I do not seem to care about it, because I have been 
disappointed about Mrs. Howard. I looked forward to her 
visit so much, that now I do not seem to have an interest in 
other people. I dare say I shall enjoy it though, dear papa,” 
she said, perceiving that he looked disappointed ; “ and you 
will not scold me for being fond of Mrs. Howard.” She looked 
up into his face with a smile, though a tear glistened in her eye. 
It was a smile of bright, heavenly beauty ; but it brought proud 
visions of earth to the worldly mind of the Earl of Butherford. 

“No,” he exclaimed; “I would have you love, venerate, 
delight in her. Whatever my Blanche loves must be most 
worthy. But there are afiections — ^feelings to be brought forth 
under other circumstances. Scenes more fitted for you. You 
do not think, Blanche, that I could consent to see you wear out 
the best years of your existence here ; when I have but to speak 
the word, and you may be the centre of attraction, the star, the 
guiding light of hundreds. No,” he added, as Blanche’s colour 
-deepened, till her forehead was dyed of a crimson hue; “I 
would not pain you, my child, with your own praises. I speak 
selfishly, for my own happiness. To see you wasted at Ruther- 
ford would be wretchedness. For my sake, you must forget the 
dreams of your childhood, and look forward to the prospect 
opening before you.” 

“ It will not be very difficult, I dare say,” said Blanche, trying 
to throw her own mind into harmony with her father’s. “ I 
dare say I have a taste for gaiety, only I have never had any 
opportunity of indulging it.” 

“Then you shall have it now,” exclaimed the earl, his face 
brightening. “ I have been remiss, certainly, in my attentions 
to the people about us ; but we will have a few persons in the 


120 


THE EARLES DAUGHTER. 


house to help us to entertain them, and th^n we can collect them 
en masse, and make it agreeable.” 

“ Soon,”- inquired Blanche, with a timidity which she could 
not hide. 

Lord Rutherford laughed. “ The execution-day is not fixed ; 
but, my love,” — and his lightness of manner in a moment 
changed into seriousness — “you must not deceive me as to your 
wishes. Neither for your aunt, nor for myself, nor for any 
human being, will I consent to do what you do not like. You 
have only to say the word, and Rutherford shall be as quiet and 
monotonous for the next six months as it has been up to this 
moment.” 

The word Monotonous gave Blanche a quick insight into her 
father’s feelings. Though he would not own it the desire for so- 
ciety was as much for his sake as for hers. She could not disappoint 
him ; and, besides, she was not in her heart inclined to do so. 
Blanche was young and naturally cheerful. She enjoyed 
change, and amusement, and excitement ; and, though she 
dreaded them as possible evils, she had never experienced any 
harm from them. Eleanor, too, she knew would enjoy the 
novelty, and Adelaide Charlton would be delighted ; and, with 
all these mingled inducements to bias her inclinations, she at 
length answered, as heartily as the earl desired, that “she 
should certainly like it, provided only that her aunt would 
undertake the management of every thing ;” and then, hoping 
that her father would be satisfied, she stood up and proposed to 
continue their walk. 


CHAPTER XXL 

When Blanche reached the blind girl’s cottage, she was not 
quite in the mood for such a visit. Her fancy had been wan- 
dering, — yielding to the gay ideas which her father had sug- 
gested. Lord Rutherford went with her till they were within 
sight of the house, and then he took out his watch and said that 
it was late, and hoped that Blanche would not stay too long. 
“ It was a strange fancy to like coming to such an ugly place.” 
Blanche was vexed that she had brought him ; and blamed her- 
self for not understanding him better, at least for not consulting 
his wishes more. This was one of the many trifling incidents 
which were continually reminding her of the little true sympa- 


THE earl’s daughter. 


121 


thy there was between them. He did not really care for the 
things for which she cared, notwithstanding his desire of making 
her happy. She opened a wicket-gate, and walked up a narrow 
slip of garden to a square, red brick house, the only ornament 
of which was a straggling monthly rose. She was almost re- 
solved not to go in ; there was a sound of voices in the house, 
and she said to herself that perhaps it was another visitor, and 
she should be in the way. Good reasons, or such as are appa- 
rently good, always rise up to the aid of inclination. Her father 
was leaning over the palings, and she feared he was growing 
impatient, and her knock at the door was hasty in consequence. 
In answer to her first inquiry, she was told that Susannah was 
not well, and was only just dressed and coming out of her bed- 
room. Blanche was about to find an excuse, and say that she 
would call another day ; but conscience reproached her, and she 
never turned away from that warning. After Mrs. Howard’s 
advice, she certainly ought not to postpone any duty which 
presented itself, and, conquering the disinclination, she said that 
she could wait till Susannah was ready. 

A delay of some minutes took place before she was admitted. 
Susannah was to be brought into the room, and seated in her 
proper chair ; and a bustling neighbour was to be dismissed at 
a back door ; and two children sent out in a hurry, with some 
broken playthings, which made the room look untidy ; but the 
smile that brightened up the blind girl’s intelligent face, when 
at last Blanche entered, quite rewarded her for her patience. 

“ And you are not well, Susannah, I hear ?” said Blanche, 
sitting down by her side, and taking her hand ; whilst Susannah 
turned to her with a look of gratitude, which did not need the 
light of the eyes to give it expression. 

“ I have not been very well this week, my lady ; I believe I 
go out rather too much. But I have had a little nephew stay- 
ing here till yesterday, my sister’s child, who lives near your 
ladyship’s aunt, at Senilhurst. That tempted me to go about 
with him and the other children ; for he is a sweet little fellow, 
and I never liked to have him out of the way. We went over 
the hill to the village one day, and it was too far ; but there is 
not much the matter.” 

“ I wish I had known you were not well,” said Blanche : • ' I 
certainly would have managed to see you before ; but the days 
pass by, and there are so many things to do. 1 should have 
liked, too, to see your little nephew. How old is he ?” 

Blanche had touched the right chord to show her sympathy. 


122 


THE earl’s daughter. 


Tlie blind girl forgot her trials, whilst in the pride and delight 
which she felt in her sister’s child, she expatiated upon his good- 
ness, and affection, and his beauty too ; for he was beautiful, she 
declared. She quite knew what he was like ; but a heavy sigh 
followed. 

“ Poor Susannah !” said Blanche kindly ; “ it must be a great 
trial.” 

The blind girl recovered herself in an instant. “ I am not 
going to complain, my lady. It’s all best, I know ; and I am 
cheerful enough most times.” 

“ Only out of spirits to-day from not being well, I am afraid,” 
said Blanche. “ I wish I could stay with you and read to you.” 

“ Ah ! if you could ! some of the hymns out of the book Miss 
Wentworth brought, I should like. They seem to be work for 
me afterwards ; because when I sit knitting, I can remember 
them. It must be a glorious thing to make verses !” 

Blanche smiled and said, “ You told me one day you had tried 
to make vei’ses yourself, Susannah. I dare say it amuses you.” 

“ Yes, sometimes, in my poor way ; it makes the time pass 
to see how the words fit.” 

“ And verses suit some thoughts better than plain words do” 
continued Blanche. 

“ Yes, than some plain words, but not the Bible words.” 

“ Many of them are really verses also, though not quite like 
ours,” replied Blanche. “ Just listen to these,” and taking up a 
Bible, she turned to the passage in Isaiah which bears us, in 
thought, from this evil world to behold “ the land which is very 
far off.” 

Susannah listened in the attitude of fixed attention, and when 
Blanche’s voice ceased, she entreated for more. “ It was so 
lovely,” she said ; “ it was like rest — not rest though, quite ; but 
moving on without feeling it.” 

Blanche could not refuse, and was beginning to read the fifty- 
fifth chapter, when the earl, unperceived, came within sight of 
the door. “ That first verse is a verse for illness, Susannah ; is 
it not ?” said Blanche, pausing ; “ for the hot, weary days, when 
our lips are parched and dry ; and a verse also for our sad days, 
when it seems that we have no pleasure ; when we sit for hours 
still and lonely, and seem not to have any friends, or comforts, 
•^nd long and thirst for them ?” 

But that can never be your case, my lady,” said Susannah. 

Blanche answered quietly : “ The lonely feeling comes to us 
all alike, at times, and so does the comfort. But I know it must 


THE earl’s daughter. 


123 


be worse for you than for me ; God has given me a great many 
blessings.” 

“ Yes, so many to love you,” continued Susannah. “ I can 
fancy that better than all the grandeur.’’ 

Blanche could not repress a sigh -as she replied, “ I hope there 
are some in the world who love me, certainly — love me very 
dearly ; but that love is not enough alone.” 

“ No, not alone; I know it is not. I can feel it is not some- 
times and the expression of the poor girl’s face spoke deep awe 
and devotion ; “ but it comes for a time ; and then it goes, and 
it is all dark — quite dark,” she repeated, in a voice of melan- 
choly, as if the privation from which she suffered had given her 
a keener insight into the meaning of the darkness of the soul. 

Blanche paused for a few instants before she replied. She 
turned the pages of the Bible, and as she did so repeated, in an 
under tone, the first words of the evening prayer, beginning, 
“ Lighten our darkness, we beseech Thee.” 

Susannah caught the words and said eagerly, “ Does it mean 
darkness in our hearts ?” 

“ Yes, in one sense it must,” answered Blanche ; “ and night 
must mean the night of this life. It is a beautiful prayer.” 

“Lighten our darkness,” repeated Susannah, thoughtfully. 
“ Ah, my lady ; that can never be for me.” 

“ Not in this world perhaps,” continued Blanche ; “ but the 
night will pass, Susannah, and the day will come — the glorious 
day. It is worth waiting for, worth suffering and striving for, 
worth patience.” 

Susannah’s face lighted up with interest, as she folded her 
hands together with an air of devotion, and suffered a flower 
which she had been picking to pieces to fall from her grasp. 

“ Just think,” pursued Blanche, “ what it will be like ; it will 
be light with no shadow, no cloud, no power of fading away — 
perfect light both for the body and the soul. And it must come ; 
though the hours seem ever so long, ever so dreary, it must 
come. Oh ! Susannah, it will be light for us both, and we both 
promised together to strive for it.” 

Susannah did not reply ; the sympathy was beyond her com- 
prehension. Since that one day which had united them in the 
same act of self-dedication, their paths had parted to the world’s 
sight far asunder ; and whilst poverty and privation were her 
lot, it seemed that both life and death must be light to the 
envied heiress of Rutherford. 

Blanche read her thoughts with wonderful quickness, and as 


124 


THE earl’s daughter. 


her voice sank and faltered, she added, “ You will not think it ; 
but I have my moments of darkness too — sadness, loneliness, 
and disappointment. Even for me earth would be often 'dreary 
if it were my all.” 

The earl’s cough at that instant warned her that he was 
within hearing. She looked up and caught his eye. His look 
startled her. It was stern ; but the sternness of suffering rather 
than of anger. He asked only if she was ready, took no notice 
of Susannah, and scarcely allowing Blanche to bid a hearty 
good-b’ye, led her from the cottage. 

They walked on in silence for some distance. Blanche was 
nervous and uncomfortable. She dreaded she knew not what. 
As they stood again upon the brow of the steep bank they had 
ascended after crossing the river, and which commanded a 
splendid view of the castle and park of Rutherford, the earl 
stopped her suddenly, and whilst he pointed to the domain which 
was one day to be her own, said in a calm tone, the more bitter 
from its effort to be indifferent : “ Then I have failed, Blanche, 
to make you happy. I give you all and you are disappointed.” 

For a moment Blanche was quite unable to answer. The 
restraint which she always felt when with her father now 
amounted to dread ; yet she summoned resolution, and replied, 
“ We must all be disappointed sometimes, I suppose, dear papa ; 
but I have a great deal to make me happy ; and I am very 
happy generally. I would not vex you for the world,” she 
added, laying her hand affectionately upon his arm. 

The earl took no notice of the caress, and after continuing his 
walk for some little distance, exclaimed, as if giving vent to a 
train of secret reflections, “ You are right, Blanche ; it must be 
so. I was a fool to think it might be otherwise. But a last 
hope, a last wish,” he added, in a lower tone. “ Folly though 
it may be to cherish it, it is hard to give it up.” 

“ If it is a wish for me, papa,” said Blanche, gaining courage 
as she spoke, “ I think you may be satisfied ; for I desire no 
change outwardly.” 

“ Then what would you have ? Why do you speak of disap- 
pointment ?” he inquired, quickly. 

Blanche evaded a direct reply, and replied, “ Our sad feelings 
generally come from our own minds. There would be none, I 
suppose, if we were perfect.” 

“ A cloud gathered upon Lord Rutherford’s face. “ You 
must be careful,” he said. “ That morbid tenderness of con- 
science may lead you, you know not where.” 


THE earl’s daughter, 125 

“ I hope it is not morbid,” exclaimed Blanche ; “ for Mrs. 
Howard did not call it so : she understood it, and gave me 
sympathy.” 

“ Sympathy !” said the earl, in an under tone ; and Blanche 
repeated the word with an unconscious earnestness, for it 
expressed the true extent of her needs. They had crossed the 
bridge, which was divided by a little gate from the castle 
grounds. The earl opened the gate for Blanche to pass, but he 
did not follow her, and when she turned to look for him, she saw 
him leaning over it with his face buried in his hands. She 
walked on slowly ; her heart was full of anxious, unhappy 
thoughts, and the sound of voices on the terrace above jarred 
painfully upon her. The idea of possibly meeting strangers 
made her hesitate to ascend the bank, and whilst waiting unde- 
cidedly, the earl rejoined her. 

“ Not that way,” he said, as he heard Adelaide’s laugh ; and 
he went on before her, so that she had only a momentary 
glimpse of his countenance ; yet, even in that instant, she fan- 
cied it looked paler than usual. They turned into a walk at 
the foot of the bank and reached the castle by a more circuitous 
path, which led to one of the side wings. A low door at the 
foot of the turret presented itself at the termination. The earl 
stopped before it. 

“ You know this way, of couree,” he said. 

“ Yes ; I have explored it once or twice,” replied Blanche. 

“ You think you know it,” he continued, and a ghastly smile 
overspread his features. “ But I doubt if you do. It is a private 
entrance to your mother’s apartments.” They passed on and 
ascended a winding staircase, which Blanche had only noticed 
before as leading, she supposed, to the servants’ rooms; and in 
a few seconds reached a small lobby, into which several doors 
opened. The earl took a key from his pocket, unlocked the 
nearest door, and putting another key into Blanche’s hand, said, 
“ This room opens behind the bed-room which you have 
seen. You will find letters and papers in the cabinet. Read 
them at your leisure, if you will.” He did not wait for a reply, 
but turned into a passage communicating with the other part of 
the castle. 

Blanche scarcely noticed that he was gone. She stood in her 
mother’s apartment, her place of solitude and retirement, and all 
consciousness of the present was absorbed in feeling for her who 
slumbered with the dead. The room was small, and furnished 
very simply ; the chairs were without carving or ornament ; the 


126 


THE earl’s daughter. 


curtains of the plainest pattern; the carpet, worn and colourless 
from age. But a reading-stand was placed in the oriel window, 
and upon it lay a large open Bible ; and a low hassock, bearing 
the marks of long use, was before it ; and near, upon a little 
table, was a Prayer Book blotted with tears, and open at the 
service for the Burial of the Dead ; and Blanche, with but one 
thought in her mind, cast a hasty glance around, and clasping 
her hands together, threw herself upon her knees to pray, where 
her mother must have prayed, for pardon, and strength, and 
acceptance at the Last Great Day. 

A few moments calmed her mind, and she was able to 
examine the room more closely. It had evidently been left 
untouched since her mother’s death, for the walls were discoloured 
and the paper was damp ; and a sense of desolation came over 
Blanche as she tried to unlock a large inlaid cabinet filling a 
recess at the lower end, which at first resisted her strongest 
efforts from the length of time it had remained unopened. It 
was the only mark of peculiar refinement or expense in the 
room, with the exception of two small pictures upon sacred sub- 
jects, exquisite in design, but fast losing their beauty from the 
damp that had gathered over them. Blanche succeeded in 
unlocking the cabinet after some further efforts, and began a 
hurried inspection of its contents. Stray articles of various kinds 
were collected in it, of little value in themselves, yet put aside 
carefully and marked. Remembrances they were of absent 
friends ; ornaments associated with happy days ; things which 
once must have had a voice and language for the heart ; now, 
like their possessor, silent in spirit and association. And there 
were other trifles, more painful perhaps to look upon as i-ecalling 
the daily life which had since become but a di’eam : pens, sealing- 
wax, scraps of paper, and memoranda, the items which form 
part of our ordinary existence, and which could tell a truer tale 
of life than the most valued relics. Blanche lingered over these 
unconsciously. They brought her very near her mother. It 
was as if but a few hours had passed since she had been seated 
at her desk, using the pen encrusted with ink, sealing, perhaps, 
the last letter which she ever wrote ; or — the fancy flashed 
across Blanche’s mind, with an overpowering rush of regret, as 
she caught sight of an infant’s coral and - rattle — amusing her- 
self with the child who was destined only to learn the value of 
her care by its loss. But time was passing rapidly. Blanche 
had but a few minutes more to spare, and, shutting the drawer 
quickly, she opened another division of the cabinet. Manuscript 


THE earl’s daughter. 127 

books, lettei*s, and papers filled it, and days would be required 
in order to examine them thoroughly. Blanche took the book 
which lay nearest. It was ull of old accounts ; she threw it 
aside, and opened another, it was the same ; another, and still 
another, and the gong sounded for dinner ; but Blanche could 
not go. Paper after paper, book after book, was examined ; but 
nothing was found which could throw any light upon her mo- 
ther’s personal history ; until, quite underneath the pile, she laid 
her hand upon a packet of letters and a journal book, marked 
“ Not to be opened till after my death.” The second gong 
sounded as she hastily unfastened the string which bound them ; 
and, closing the cabinet, she took up the packet, locked the door 
of the chamber, and burned to her owd room to dress as quickly 
as she might, and appear at the dinner table, if possible, as gay 
and light-hearted as was her wont. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

“ You were a complete truant this afternoon, my love,” said 
Lady Charlton, addressing Blanche, as she threw herself into an 
arm-chair after dinner, professing to be too tired either to read, 
write, or work. “We had a charming driye, and I should have 
liked to introduce you to my friends the Cuthbert Greys. Very 
nice people they are in their way ; a little too fashionable, per- 
haps, for your taste ; but kind-hearted and extremely clever. I 
quite thought, when Miss Wentworth joined us, that you would 
be found somewhere.” 

Blanche did not exactly like to own that she had absented 
hei-self on purpose, and endeavoured to change the subject, by 
asking where they had been and what they had seen. 

“ The carriage party went round by Staplehurst Common, 
and over the hill to the old monument in Lord Hervey’s 
grounds,” said Eleanor ; “ but Miss Adelaide Charlton and I 
drove through the copse.” 

“ Miss Adelaide did not go with you anywhere by her own 
consent,” exclaimed Adelaide, coming forward from the window 
where she had been standing. 

Eleanor laughed, and promised to be less formal another 
time ; “ Though it is an error on the right side,” she added. 

“ You must come with me to my room. I want to show 
you that sketch we were speaking of,” continued Adelaide. 


128 


THE earl’s daughter. 


“ What sketch ?” -asked Maude, haughtily and quickly. 

Adelaide’s blush was not perceived in the twilight ; but she 
did blush as she answered, in a tone of aftected indifference, 
“ Oh ! only one that was taken for me abroad, — I dare say 
you don’t remember.” 

“ There was one which I took,” said Maude : “ is that it ?” 

“No, no, Maude. What can it signify to you and calling 
to Eleanor, Adelaide hastened out of the room. 

Blanche watched this little scene with surprise, and a feeling 
of annoyance which she could not account for. She stood in 
silence for some moments, when Maude’s hand was laid upon 
her shoulder, and Maude’s deep voice of satire whispered in her 
ear, “Jealous, Blanche?” Blanche started; but, before she 
could reply, Maude had glided past her, and she was left alone 
with her aunt. She could not go then, although she longed to 
do so ; but it would have been unkind, when they had scarcely 
met all day ; and as Lady Charlton drew a chair towards her, 
and beckoning to Blanche to seat herself in it, said, in her most 
winning tone, “Now, my child, we will have a few minutes of 
pleasure,^’ Blanche would have been well contented, but for one 
reason, to remain. 

“ You were grave at dinner, my love, and you are grave now,” 
began Lady Charlton. “ What is there to make you so ? must 
I not know ?” 

“ I did not mean to show that I was grave,” replied Blanche. 

“ But you cannot hide it, dear child ; not, at least, from me. 
You are graver than you ought to be, Blanche, for your yeai-s.” 

It is my disposition, I suppose,” said Blanche. 

“ No, my love, I assure you it is not your disposition. You 
are naturally light-hearted ; but you suffer yourself to broo i too 
much upon serious subjects.” 

“ That cannot be, surely ?” exclaimed Blanche. 

“ Yes, indeed, it can. You would say so, if you had had my 
experience. You are very like your mother, Blanche.” 

“ You would not wish to see me different, then, would you?” 
asked Blanche almost reproachfully. 

“ Not in many things ; but, in that one, perhaps I might. 
Much more of your happiness may depend upon it than you 
are at all aware of.” 

Lady Charlton spoke so energetically, that Blanche looked at 
her with astonishment. “Was not my mother happy?” was 
the question which trembled on her lips ; but then, as often 
before, she dreaded to ask it. 


THE earl’s daughter. 


129 


“ I should like to have my own way with you,” continued 
Lady Charlton, in a lighter tone. “ You should not be buried 
at Rutherford much longer if I had.” 

“ Papa means to make Rutherford very gay,” said Blanche. 

“ Ah ! my love, he means — I quite give him credit for his 
meaning. But can he do it ? I know him better than you do, 
Blanche. There is not a man of -greater natural talent, or 
greater powers of pleasing, in England than your father, — but 
not at Rutherford ; there is a weight upon him here.” 

“ What ! how ?” asked Blanche, quickly. 

Lady Charlton hesitated, “ A weight I called it, — well ! it is 
one : the weight of the place ; the old walls, and the old furni- 
ture ; it even makes me melancholy. Now at Senilhurst, where 
I would take you if I could, you would find everything differ- 
ent ; a cheerful house, lovely grounds, open and bright, a very 
pretty pasture country, not overpowering in beauty : you know, 
or at least you will know by-and-by, that nothing is more 
fatiguing than being always on the mental tiptoe of admiration ; 
— everything in fact to enliven you. It would be a new 
phase of existence, and a good introduction to a season in 
London.” 

Blanche liked the description, and said so ; and Lady Charl- 
ton was excited too, and gave a yet more glowing picture of the 
enjoyments she would find at Senilhurst. 

“ I should recommend it far more than remaining here,” she 
said. “ There is nothing to be done in a place like Rutherford. 
Entertainments — young people’s entertainments I mean — are 
out of character. And you would not have the change — I see 
that is what you want — complete change of scene.” 

“ When I have been here only a few months ?” 

“ That does not signify, my love,” replied Lady Charlton ; 
“ it is the effect of the place which is pressing you down. If 
your father had consulted me, he never would have brought 
you here. There is nothing so desirable for young persons as 
cheerfulness. Grave thoughts and anxieties come quite soon 
enough,” she added, with that sudden transition to a tone of 
sorrowful feeling, which always gave a peculiar interest to her 
conversation. 

“ I should have no village at Senilhurst ; no poor people, or 
school,” said Blanche : “ that I should regret.” 

“ Yes ; but, my dear, you would have them. You should see 
what we are doing there, and help us. Sir Hugh is a great 
man for education, and gives me carte blanche to do as I like 


130 


THE EARL S DAU&HTER. 


when we are at home ; and you shall help me. My own girls, 
unfortunately, have never taken to that sort of thing, and it has 
been a great vexation to me. Ady is too giddy, and Maude is 
so wrapt up in German metaphysics. I assure you, Blanche, 
you could be of the greatest possible use to me.” 

“ And poor Eleanor,” said Blanche, unconsciously giving 
utterance to her own train of thought. 

“ Yes, she would miss you ; but, my dear, you cannot be 
always together.” c 

“We have been so till now,” said Blanche. “ I could not 
bear to think of our being really separated.” 

“ No, indeed, I can quite understand that ; you must be just 
like sisters : but the being parted for a time will only make you 
enjoy being together the more afterwards.” 

“ It will be such a very long parting,” observed Blanche, “ if 
I am to go to London in the spring ; unless — I wonder whether 
Mrs. Wentworth would let her go with me there.” 

“ We had better not look forward, my dear child ; take the 
day as it comes. Go to Senilhurst with me now, and leave the 
spring to itself.” 

“ Mrs. Wentworth would not allow it, I am afraid,” said 
Blanche, unheeding the warning ; “ and I could never make up 
my mind to ask her, if I thought she would say No.” 

“ Mrs. Wentworth’s strictness would come in the way, I 
suppose,” said Lady Charlton : “ but never mind, my love ; 
leave it, as I said, and remember you will get on better in 
London than you would elsewhere, without Miss Wentworth. 
There will be so much to amuse and interest you. It pleases 
me immensely, Blanche,” she added, bending forward to kiss 
her niece’s forehead, “ to find you take to the idea so kindly, 
as the poor people say ; and I shall tell your father we have 
settled it.” 

“ Oh ! no, no,” began Blanche ; but Lady Charlton stopped 
her — “ My dear, you don’t know your own power, and you 
must be taught it. Believe me, you have but to say the word, 
and horses would be ordered for Senilhurst to-night. And now 
you have quite cheered me, and I must exert myself, and go 
and see after Sir Hugh. Shall we have tea soon ? I am tired, 
and must go to bed early to-night ; so, if you can, don’t let 
that Mr. Wentworth keep us till midnight singing glees and 
trios.” 

Blanche rang for tea, and thought it might be possible to 
snatch a few moments for solitude and a cursory inspection of 


THE earl’s daughter. 


131 


her precious packet of papers, before it was brought in. 
Eleanor and Adelaide were crossing the gallery as she went up 
stairs. She heard Eleanor say, in a laughing voice, “ I shall 
certainly tell how carefully you have kept your treasure whilst 
Adelaide replied, by a faint “ Oh ! no, no ! indeed you must 
not !” which, of course, meant pray do. But Blanche did not 
stop to interpret words, or search into hidden meanings ; only 
she thought it strange that Eleanor should have found so much 
to occupy her with Adelaide Charlton as to leave no time 
for her. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

It was nearly midnight before Blanche went to her room for 
the night. Notwithstanding Lady Charlton’s injunctions, music 
had been the order of the evening ; and music is, perhaps, of 
all amusements the most enticing. Lord Rutherford was 
particularly silent, and seemed quite in the mood for enjoying 
a gratification which could be obtained without effort ; and Sir 
Hugh, who generally joined the party for an hour or two before 
he went to bed, was charmed with the opportunity of display- 
ing his scientific knowledge. Duets, trios, glees, and quartettes 
succeeded each other rapidly ; or rather the quartettes were the 
beginning, and the trios the finale: for, after a short time, 
Maude, whose voice was of the greatest consequence, professed 
her determination not to sing another note, and the piano was 
left to the possession of Adelaide, Eleanor, and Mr. Wentworth ; 
Blanche only joining them occasionally. Blanche was much 
occupied with her own thoughts; but not sufficiently so to 
render her unobservant of what was going on around. Music 
was a delight to her, and in general such an evening would have 
been a great treat ; but when at length the piano was closed, 
and Eleanor and her brother departed, she felt relieved ; as if 
something which had annoyed and offended her was removed. 
Yet it was hard to say what that something was. There had 
been nothing to find fiiult with in the singing. Nothing in the 
manner or behaviour of any one of the party to herself. Eleanor 
had seemed anxious to make amends for any apparent neglect ; 
and Maude, as if wishing to show that she had quite forgotten 
their difference of opinion, was particularly gentle, and pointed 
out a beautiful passage of Egmont, which she assured her she 


132 


THE earl’s daughter. 


had marked because it was so entirely unobjectionable. Every 
one had been kind to her ; yet Blanche was fretted. It was so 
strange, she said to herself, that she should be so ; so odd, 
that she could not bear to watch Adelaide ; that she quite dis- 
liked hearing her speak to Mr. Wentworth. She was really 
very good-natured and sang nicely, and with a good deal of 
spirit and taste of a certain kind. But it must be the taste, 
Blanche thought, which jarred upon her. It was too marked 
— too personal — and there was a system of amiable quarrelling 
and bantering kept up between Adelaide and Mr. Wentworth 
in the intervals between the different songs, which was especially 
disagreeable to her. She could not help hoping that, if this 
style of intercourse was to go on, Mr. Wentworth would dis- 
continue his visits. 

Thoughts of Adelaide, however, were soon dispelled when 
the door of Blanche’s apartment was closed against interrup- 
tion, and she was at length left at liberty fully to examine her 
mother’s papers. Late though it was, she could not rest satis- 
fied with the slight glance which was all she had before given 
them, and seizing upon the journal, as being the most likely to 
afford her the information she desired, she began to read it. 

But disappointment was destined to follow. There was no 
record of passing events to tell the secret history of the Coun- 
tess of Rutherford, although there was sufficient to show that 
she had been singularly gifted with refined taste and powers of 
observation chastened by deep piety. The journal was not 
exactly what its name implied. It was rather a book of 
remarks, thoughts, extracts, and prayers. To the writer it must 
have bee i full of memories and suggestions ; for there were 
dates and private marks, bearing reference, apparently, to the 
seasons at which the observations had been made ; and there 
was also a visible change in the style of writing from the com- 
mencement to the end. The first pages showed more imagina- 
tion than reflection; more of hope than contentment. The last 
were almost entirely snort extracts from devotional writers 
expressive of great mental sufferings, and an endeavour to be 
resigned under affliction. They were unconnected, and some- 
times abruptly terminated. The handwriting was often ille- 
gible, and a few sentences were introduced, apparently without 
meaning; but the concluding words, written several months 
before death had summoned the Countess of Rutherford to her 
rest, were the declaration of the Psalmist : “ I will patiently 
abide alway, and will praise Thee more and more.” 


THE earl’s daughter. 


133 


Blanche repeated the verse to herself again and again, for it 
seemed sent as her mother’s legacy — her last accents of advice 
and encouragement. But there was nothing strictly personal 
in all this ; and she turned to the letters. They also were, for 
the most part, unsatisfactory, being chiefly written by Lady 
Rutherford’s friends, with the exception of a few from the earl, 
dated in the first year of his married life, and preserved most 
carefully in a little silk case. These were kind and considerate ; 
but implied frequent long absences, and gave few indications of 
any wish to be at Rutherford. Engagements, it was said, kept 
him in London. He hoped to be in the country soon, but 
could not promise certainly ; he trusted that the countess was 
amusing herself, begged her to deny herself no gratification ; 
was glad to hear that Mi-s. Wentworth was with her. These, 
and many similar wishes, came in every letter. But Blanche 
was chilled as she perused them ; for it was not the love which 
would have been shown to herself. 

Surely, she thought, there must have been something more. 
This could not have been the affection for the sake of which 
her motheir had left home, and friends, and early ties, and 
pledged hei*self, by the most solemn and. binding engagement, 
to love, and honour, and obey, until death. One letter of the 
packet was still unread, and, with a sickening feeling of doubt 
and disappointment, Blanche unfolded it. It was without a 
direction, and in her mother’s handwriting, addressed to a dear 
friend. 

The first sentence attracted her attention by a painful fascina- 
tion. “ You tell me I must struggle against my misery ; but 
do you know what you require? You would not be willingly 
unkind ; yet by such words you raise a barrier between us, 
which leaves me doubly desolate. Weary and heartsick I have 
been so* long, that sorrow is my natural element, and hitherto I 
have borne it in silence. But if the captive sinks under the 
burden of captivity, who shall blame him ? I wander, day after 
day, seeking for I know not what — longing for rest which never 
comes ; listening for — I am listening now — but you will find 
fault with me. God hears me ; I turn to Him. He will hear 
my child. I give her to Him. — If my husband comes — I am 
dreaming — too late.” And those few sentences, the half-col- 
lected, half-unconscious outpourings of a broken heart, were the 
only indications granted to Blanche of the cause of that grief 
which had preyed upon her mother’s health, and it seemed too 
evident, at length, crushed the powers of her mind. 


134 


THE earl’s daughter. 


The morning dawned brilliantly and cloudlessly upon Kutlier- 
ford Castle, and as Blanche roused herself from a short slum- 
ber, the last w'ords of her mother’s letter flashed upon her 
memory before she could recall where she had heard them, or 
W'hy they should be accompanied by a pang. 

The recollection came up but too soon, and with it the con- 
viction that her most painful suspicions were verified — that her 
mother’s life had been rendered miserable by neglect. For, in 
the clear thoughts of the morning, Blanche could put together 
words, and incidents, and trifling remarks, which had fixed them- 
selves in her memory from the very pain they had caused, and 
by their aid find a clue to many circumstances hitherto myste- 
rious. Long before the household had risen she sat up in her 
bed, gazing upon the straggling, nearly illegible, characters 
which showed the wretchedness of her mother’s feelings, almost 
as much as the words themselves ; whilst indignation and fear 
were succeeded by bitter self-reproach, as she allowed herself to 
pity one parent at the expense of her affection for another. Her 
mother had been lonely and heartsick, and no one had been 
near to comfort her. She had been left to breathe her anxious 
wishes, and no one had been at hand to gratify them. She was 
ill in body and in mind, and there was no one to administer to 
her needs or calm her distracted spirit. Whose fault could it 
have been ? Blanche rested her forehead on her hand to still 
the beating, throbbing pain, which was settling there. It was 
no new thought that her father was proud and worldly, and had 
no sympathy with her highest hopes. Day by day the assurance 
had become “ doubly sure and the gulf between them more 
widely marked. But could he also be cold and neglectful ; he, 
who was so devoted* to his child’s happiness, whose every thought 
was centred in her gratification, whose eagerness to indulge was 
even painful and burdensome ? Alas ! for that most bitter of 
all doubts, which bids us look with suspicion on those whom 
duty bids us reverence. 

When the party assembled at the breakfast-table the 
pale face of Lady Blanche excited general notice. The earl 
looked at her with uneasy interest, but only asked if she had 
slept well ; whilst Lady Charlton took occasion to remark that 
it was evident the place did not agree with her ; she had thought 
so for a long time but did not like to say so. “ Senilhurst 
would do her a great deal of good, if you would but think so,” 
she added, addressing Lord Rutherford. 

“ Senilhurst will do very well, if Blanche likes it,” he replied ; 
“but I very much doubt if she does.” 


THE EARL S DAUGHTER. 


135 


Blanche smiled faintly, and said she should miss many things 
at Rutherford extremely. 

“But, my love,” and Lady Charlton turned round Avith a 
sparkling eye ; “ it was only last night you entirely entered into 
my views, and quite enjoyed the idea ; you really are very in- 
comprehensible.” 

“ I don’t much care,” began Blanche ; but she stopped, for 
she knew that indifference would vex every one. 

“ You don’t care, my dear ? I wish I could understand you. 
I wish I knew what you were aiming at.” 

“ She is not aiming at anything,” said the earl, coolly. “ She 
likes staying at Rutherford ; atid, if so, at Rutherford we will 
stay.” 

Lady Charlton compressed her lips and went on with her 
breakfast. Soon after Adelaide came into the room. Lady 
Charlton looked up, and said, “You are very late. Is your 
father dressed ?” 

“ I don’t know,” was Adelaide’s careless reply, as if the ques- 
tion did not at ail concern her. 

“ I must know. I wonder what Pearson has been about ; 
pray inquire,” continued Lady Charlton to one of the servants. 

“ Pearson has grown extremely absurd of late,” she added to 
herself ; “ he never can be in time ; and Sir Hugh won’t bear 
it.” 

Pearson made his appearance, and was immediately accosted 
with, “ Sir Hugh is not at breakfast, I suppose ?” 

“ Yes, my lady ; at breakfast, and quite enjoying it. He hopes 
to see your ladyship as soon as is convenient.” 

“ Oh !” and as Pearson withdrew. Lady Charlton gave a 
slight push to her plate, and declared she had no appetite, and 
really felt quite unwell. As it was such a beautiful morning, 
she thought she should like a little stroll on the terrace for the 
sake of the air. 

Blanche half rose to accompany her, or at least to ask if she 
could be of any assistance ; but Lady Charlton motioned to her 
to remain, and murmuring a few thanks went away. Silence 
followed. Lord Rutherford took up a newspaper, and Adelaide 
began reading a letter ; whilst Maude occupied herself in study- 
ing a large historical picture that hung opposite to her ; and 
Blanche tried to finish a breakfast for which she had not any 
appetite. Ma,ude looked at her from time to time with an ex- 
pression of greater gentleness in her features than they seemed 
naturally formed to wear ; and as Adelaide lingered, according 


136 


THE earl’s daughter. 


to her custom, tasting first one thing and then another, sighing 
because the tea was cold, and ordering coffee which, when it 
came, she did not wish for, Maude declared .herself ashamed of 
wasting so much time, and proposed to Blanche to leave her. 

“ Yes, do go ; never mind me,” exclaimed Adelaide good- 
natui-edly ; “ I have quantities of amusement — the most charm- 
ing letter you ever read, Maude, from Caroline Grey. She is 
so sorry not to be in the neighbourhood, with her mother and 
sister, now we are here.” Maude’s lip curled : “ I leave you 
to your friend very willingly,” she said, “ so long as I am not 
required to undergo the penance of reading what she writes.” 

“Ah, well! you don’t like her; but that I can’t help. 
Blanche, Caroline Grey would just suit you ; you shall know her 
some day.” 

“ And hate her, as I do,” whispered Maude, putting her arm 
within that of Blanche, and drawing her out of the room. 

“ Caroline Grey is Adelaide’s dearest weakness,” she added, 
laughing, as she led Blanche to the library. “ Almost more 
silly than herself, if that were possible. But we won’t talk 
about her. What have you done, Blanche, to put my mother 
in such a ferment ?” 

“ I !” exclaimed Blanche. “ Is my aunt vexed ?” 

“ My dear child, what a perfect innocent you are I Vexed ? — 
She is angry, furious.” 

“ Oh ! no, surely.” 

“ Hark 1 Here she comes !” said Maude, and Lady Charlton 
walked into the room, inquired for some sealing-wax — asked 
Maude where Adelaide was, and, after a formal “ Better, thank 
you,” in reply to Blanche’s inquiry of how she felt, again 
departed. 

“ I am afraid she is annoyed,” said Blanche, much perplexed. 

“ Only annoyed 1” said Maude. “ WT’ell, we must hope it may 
be nothing more. But what concerns me most, Blanche, is 
yourself. You look wofully pale this morning, and I must know 
the reason why ?” 

“ I slept badly,” said Blanche. 

“ But why ? Sleeping badly is never an ultimate cause, and 
my mind cannot rest till it has reached one.” 

“I did sleep badly : but I cannot tell you the reason why,” 
said Blanche, quietly. 

“ But I must know. I must insist upon knowing. Had it 
anything to do with our stupid afternoon, yesterday ? Did I bore 
you by my German nonsense 2” 


THE earl’s daughter. 


137 


“ Oh ! no, no ; I scarcely thought about it.” 

“ Not complimentary ; one would rather be hated than for- 
gotten. Still I forgive you. But the pale looks and the bad 
night, — I shall go backwards, like the wonderful history of the 
house that Jack built, till I find the cause.” 

Blanche’s eyes ‘ filled with tears, and Maude’s manner altered 
directly. 

“ There is something more in this than a fittle fever, or a fit 
of worry,” she exclaimed. “ Blanche ! I wish I could make you 
believe that I am not quite such a heathenish savage as I appear.” 

“ Only yourself would call you so,” said Blanche, half laugh- 
ing. 

“ No. But a great many would think me so. And yet, 1 
think, yes ; I am sure,” she continued, more seriously ; “ that I 
could be a friend — a true friend — a better friend to you than 
most people. Blanche, why do you feel yourself so lonely ?” 

Blanche regarded her with a smile of surprise ; and Maude 
went on. “ You are lonely, though you may not choose to own 
it ; you have no one to sympathize with you, though so many 
love you ; and you have fancies, and worries, and brooding 
thoughts. I see it constantly.” 

“ Are you sure you are not speaking of yourself ?” asked 
Blanche. 

“ Never mind me ; I am used to it. I am older, have seen 
more of the world, and have learnt to live in it by myself. But 
you have not. And you are not formed to battle with it alone, 
as I am.” 

“ It may be the lesson I am to learn,” said Blanche, gravely. 

“ No, no,” exclaimed Maude ; “ that is one of your narrow 
views. We choose our own lessons, and shape our own lives. 
They do so, at least, who are worth anything. Determine that 
you will not be lonely, — that you will have companionship and 
sympathy, and you will find it.” 

“ Have you done so ?” asked Blanche. 

“ No ; but it is because I do not need it — because I would 
rather stem the torrent of life’s troubles by my own unassisted 
power ; but you are formed to lean upon others and cling to 
them. Why must you condemn yourself to reserve and soli- 
tude ?” 

“ I do not condemn myself,” replied Blanche. “ I enjoy 
sympathy when I can have it ; but I do not need it as much as 
you imagine : or rather,” and her colour slightly deepened as 
she spoke, “ I have more than I can explain.” 


138 


THE earl’s daughter. 


Maude turned away as if annoyed. 

“ Am I unkind ?” said Blanche, following her. 

“ Incomprehensible, merely,” was Maude’s cold reply ; “ but 
I have no wish whatever to force your confidence. I might 
have known, from our conversation yesterday, how little our 
ideas accord.” And yet, as she sdd this, Maude lingered in the 
room, evidently unwilling to break off the conversation. 

“You are very kind to me, dear Maude,” said Blanche, 
gently. “ I wish I could make you believe that I really am 
obliged ; perhaps, by and by, you will, when we understand 
each other ; for, in some things, I think we agree more than we 
know. But, as regards confidence, I have none that I should 
feel it right to give to any jone, except Mrs. Howard, or, perhaps, 
my aunt.” 

“ Mamma !” exclaimed Maude. “ Confidence to her !” 

“ I don’t mean confidence, exactly,” replied Blanche. “ But 
there are some things which she could tell me, which would be 
a comfort to me ; though I could not ask her about them just 
now.” 

“ No ; — certainly,” answered Maude, with a satirical laugh. 
“ Fond though she is of you,I would not advise you to put your- 
self in her way again, for some hours at least.” 

Blanche looked distressed, and said she was scarcely aware 
what she had done, though she supposed it was being so 
foolishly changeable, as to going to Senilhurst. 

“ I suppose it was that : but leave her to herself ; she will 
come round again ; and she will bear a great deal from you.” 

“ I am glad she is fond of me,” said Blanche ; though she 
said it with an uncomfortable feeling of distrust and disappoint- 
ment. 

“ Yes ! mamma is always fond of persons she is proud of.” 

Blanche’s face showed that she was puzzled ; and Maude 
continued, laughingly, “ Now, my dear Blanche, there is a cer- 
tain limit to simplicity, beyond which it becomes silliness. You 
really are much too sensible not to know that you possess a 
great deal of which the wwld is proud — rank, wealth, beauty. 
Nay ; don’t shrink from the truth,” she added, as Blanche suf- 
fered an expression of distaste to escape her lips. “ I am 
not flattering you ; I am not a man paying court to you ; if I 
were, I should be wiser than to praise you to your face. But I 
long to see you make the most of yourself ; and I am sure no 
one can ever do that who has not a thorough appreciation of his 
or her peculiar advantages. So you must understand that 


THE earl’s daughter. 


139 


mamma is proud of you ; and, as a consequence, fond of you ; 
and if you choose to go and confide your griefs to her, don’t let 
me prevent you. Only, I should have imagined — 

“ What ?” • . 

Maude thought for a moment, and then answered, “ I should 
have thought that your taste might have led you in a different 
direction.” 

“ It is not a question of taste,” replied Blanche. “ If I did 
not love my aunt, she would still be the only person to help me 
now ; unless, perhaps, Mrs. Wentworth could.” 

“Then go to Mrs. Wentworth,” exclaimed Maude, hastily. 
“ Cold, though she is, stiff, unbending, — go to her, Blanche. 
You wonder at me, and I shock you ; but I am not thinking of 
my mother, as my mother — only as suiting you. Mrs. 
Wentworth will tell you more of what you wish to know than 
mamma will,” she added, fixing her large piercing eyes upon 
Blanche, as if she knew her inmost heart. 

“ But I cannot go to Mrs. Wentworth ; I cannot learn from 
one who is not a member of my family — ” 

“ The secrets of that family,” added Maude, quietly. “ Sup- 
pose I could tell them, Blanche ?” 

“ Do you know ? Can you tell ?” exclaimed Blanche, and the 
faint shade of colour in her cheeks went and came rapidly. 

“ If I cannot tell myself, I might learn,” pursued Maude. 

Blanche shook her head in disappointment. “ No ; you are 
very kind, very good ; but it will not do.” 

“ And there is to be no confidence between us, then ?” said 
Maude. 

Blanche did not answer. They had been standing together 
at the window, and as she was about to turn away from it, 
Maude laid a detaining hand upon her arm, and pointing to a 
bird which was winging its flight far into the blue sky, said, “ I 
had a dream of two minds soaring together, leaving the delu- 
sions of this paltry world behind them, and seeking a higher 
hfe in the glorious light of truth.” 

Blanche sighed. 

“ Must it be a dream ?” said Maude, almost tenderly. 

Blanche raised her eyes timidly to her cousin’s face, as she 
replied unhesitatingly, “ There is a false light as well as a true 
one. Before we soar together, Maude, we must know which we 
are seeking.” 

“ Truth,” answered Maude. “ In other words, spiritual, intel- 
lectual beauty, which is another name for truth.” 


140 THE earl’s DAUaHTER. 

Blanche passed her hand over her eyes, and said, with a faint 
smile, “ I cannot talk as we did yesterday — my head aches too 
much ; 1 cannot fix my thoughts.” 

There was a tone of indescribable depression and weariness in 
her voice. Maude looked at her compassionately, and kissed 
her, and said she would not tease her ; and the sympathy over- 
came the self-command which Blanche had been exercising, and 
large tears filled her eyes, and rolled down her cheeks. 

Maude made her sit down. “ Can’t I help you ?” she said. 
“ Are you quite sure ?” 

“ Quite sure ; unless you know.” She thought for a few 
moments, and then added, “ Does my aunt ever talk to you 
about herself ?” 

“ About past days ?” said Maude. “ Yes, sometimes ; but not 
often:” 

“ Not of interesting things ; things which would interest me ?” 
and Blanche looked up imploringly. 

“ I don’t know%” said Maude doubtfully ; “ that is, they would 
interest you in a way.” 

“ But does she ever mention my mother ?” The last words 
were uttered with painful unwillingness, and when they were 
spoken Blanche sat with her hands tightly clasped together, as 
with an effort to conceal the working of some keen emotion.. 

The perplexed expression of Maude’s face increased as she 
looked at her. “ What is it that troubles you, Blanche ?” she 
said. “ Surely nothing connected with days so long gone by ; 
sorrows that have so long ceased ?” 

“ Then she was sorrowful ; she was miserable,” exclaimed 
Blanche, rising impetuously. “ Oh, Maude, in pity tell me what 
you know.” 

“ Sorrowful, miserable,” repeated Maude slowly. “ One must 
always fear it in such cases ; but it may have been better than 
we think.” 

Blanche grasped her cousin’s hand, and the brightness of her 
eye was terrible in its eagerness. 

“ There are sadder moments of sanity than of delusion,” con- 
tinued Maude, gently ; and Blanche’s fingers relaxed their grasp, 
and she fell back in her chair nearly fainting. Maude was not in the 
least hurried out of her usual steadiness of manner ; she sprinkled 
some water on her cousin’s forehead from a flower-glass near, 
and when Blanche a 'little re^dved, and uttered mournfully the 
word “ delusion,” answered, without any reference to her 
transient weakness, “ I thought you knew it, dear.” 


THE earl’s daughter. 


141 


“ No, no ; they kept it from me. But tell me now, quickly.” 

“ Only delusion,” answered Maude ; “ nothing more. No- 
thing to distress you, Blanche. Pray believe me,” she added, 
as Blanche’s eyes again filled with tears. 

“ But what delusion ? of what kind ?” asked Blanche, faintly. 

“ Quiet melancholy ; only that, I assure you ; nothing really 
hereditary to frighten you.” 

Blanche scarcely seemed to hear this comfort ; she only said 
in reply, “ Was she alone ?” 

“Yes, sometimes, when it could not be helped,” replied 
Maude, with evident hesitation. 

“ Quite alone ; sorrowful, miserable,” murmured Blanche, and 
she leant her head upon her hand, and cried bitterly. 

“ I will tell you all I know,” said Maude. “ She was not 
strong naturally, mamma says ; and she was a great deal by 
herself; and she must have been like you, Blanche, fond of 
brooding over her own fancies, for they never could persuade 
her to see people and go out, except occasionally, when Lord 
Rutherford was here.” 

“ And she went out then ? she was happy then ?” exclaimed 
Blanche, raising her head quickly. 

“ Yes, she went out a little to please him,” continued Maude. 
“ But you know he was absent a great deal, especially at last.” 

Blanche’s head sank despondingly. Maude’s quick eye 
remarked the change, but she went on — “ I do not think there 
was really anything to distress you so much ; of course, she had 
every comfort, and her mind” — she stopped, considering how to 
approach the subject in the way least likely to give pain ; but 
Blanche made a slight motion of the hand, and said, “ I can 
bear it,” and Maude continued, in a rather hurried voice, “ It 
was not so very dreadful ; not common insanity. She was very 
quiet, and gentle, and good. Mamma used to come and see 
her very often, and for a long time people said it was only 
melancholy, it came on so gradually. She used to write a great 
deal, I believe ; but almost all her papers were destroyed when 
Lord Rutherford came back from abroad.” 

“ But he was with her ; quite at the last ?” said Blanche, in a 
low voice. 

“ No ; he was not here in time. It was very unfortunate ; for 
the longing to see him was so great, it was worse than any- 
thing. But Blanche, my dear, I am doing you harm,” she said, 
observing her cousin’s look of intense suffering. 

“ No, no ; go on was all that Blanche ventured to utter. 


142 


THE earl’s daughter. 


“ There is not much besides to tell,” answered Maude. “ But 
ind(ied, Blanche, I am very anxious you should not think it at 
all worse than it really was. She was ill and depressed very 
long before it was thought necessary to have any one with her ; 
a companion,” she added, as Blanche slightly shuddered. 
“And, even to the very last, there were intervals when she 
knew everything and everybody quite well ; and the only way 
in which they discovered when the attacks were coming on 
worse, was that she would then kneel for houre together in her 
room, repeating portions of the Burial Service.” 

Blanche put her hand before her eyes to hide the light of the 
glorious sun. Many moments elapsed before she spoke. Then 
she rose from her seat, and kissed Maude, and said, “ Thank 
you ; you have been very kind ; you must not say that you have 
told me,” and walked slowly out of the room. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Mrs. Wentworth was sitting alone in her little room : the 
post was just come in, and she was busied in answering her 
letters. She looked particularly old that morning ; perhaps her 
dress was unbecoming — perhaps her letters had been annoying ; 
at any rate, her care-worn expression was sufficient to attract 
observation ; and as Dr. Wentworth passed the window, and 
stopped to say a few cheerful words, it made him delay the 
business he was bent upon, and re-enter the house. “ There is 
nothing amiss in them ; is there, my love ?” he inquired, taking 
up the letters on the table. “ I did not read them through.” 

“ Oh, no ! nothing ; they are mere chit-chat ; not of any con- 
sequence. Why should you ask ?” 

“ You seemed uncomfortable — that is all ; but if there is 
nothing the matter, well and good. It must be the cap, I think, 
wffiich makes you look different. I think I told you I was going 
to the Union this morning.” ' 

“ Yes; you will be back to dinner, I suppose, at six o’clock.” 

“Say half-past; we shall be more punctual. Good b’ye;” 
and Dr. Wentworth departed. 

Mrs. Wentworth leant back in her chair, in a reverie, a strange 
and painful one. It carried her back many years, to that early 
romance of first ‘love — that entire sympathy of thought and 
feeling, which she had imagined was to last undiminished for 


THE earl’s daughter. 


143 


ever. Dr. Wentworth was a good man, an earnest man: his 
heart was given to his duties, first ; his family afterwards. His 
wife did not wish it should be otherwise ; but she did not re- 
semble him. The romance of her early years had not, like his, 
been extinguished by the constant pressure of parochial cares. 
She was poetical, enthusiastic still, in secret. She had, as it 
were, two characters — the one of great imagination, the other 
of strong common sense. Her husband’s affections had been 
won by the foi’iner ; they Tvere retained by the latter. Imagi- 
nation, with him, had been the amusement of boyhood ; with 
her, it was the present beauty of life : and if Mrs. Wentworth 
had been endued with a less portion of right feeling and self- 
command, the discovery of this essential difference in their 
characters might have been jnade at the risk of the happiness 
of both. As it was, it only served to throw her back into her- 
self, to chill the outward show of enthusiasm, and to concentrate 
all the intensity of her hopes and interests upon her children. 
Perfect respect, and a true, though unimpassioned, love, were 
still her husband’s ; but she had learnt to live her inward life 
without him : and whilst sharing his pleasures, and sympathising 
in his sorrows, she concealed, as by a natural instinct, those 
keener, more sensitive feelings, which he would not have un- 
derstood. There were times when this sense of uncongeniality 
was very oppressive. When Mi’s. Wentworth thought of her 
children, she most felt the absence of that perfect sympathy, 
which would have supported and soothed her under the 
anxieties they occasioned. It was a fear for them which was 
now pressing heavily upon her spirits ; that boding, shadowy 
fear which cannot be combated, because it assumes no tangible 
form. She indulged the reverie of the past for a few moments 
only. It was dangerous to her peace, and contrary to her strict 
conscientiousness ; but, as it faded away, there rose up the long 
vista of futurity, and who can blame a mother’s momentary 
longing to pierce into its secrets ? It is so hard to persuade 
ourselves that the children whom we love so fondly, and guard 
so tenderly, must one day bear, as we do, the burden of this 
evil world. When we are sinking ourselves beneath pressing 
cares, we can least endure the thought that they must sink 
likewise. When we are struggling with the claims of conflict- 
ing duties, or worn with exertions for their happiness, we can 
least look forward to the same conflict for them. We watch 
them in their hours of mirth, and listen to their joyful expecta- 
tions, and in pity suffer the delusion to last whilst yet it may ; 


144 THE earl’s daughter. 

and at length we ourselves become sharere in it, and, closing 
our eyes to reality, whisper to our own hearts, “To-morrow 
shall be as this day, and much more abundant.” Happy is 
it that a truer love and a wiser forethought is steadily, unshrink- 
ingly, yet most mercifully, preparing for them the cup of trial 
which we would so weakly withhold. 

A knock at the door disturbed the train of Mrs. Wentworth’s 
thoughts. “ Come in,” was the order, spoken quickly and 
nervously; but Mrs. Wentworth did not look round. 

“ Did you want me, mamma ?” asked Eleanor, standing as if 
unwilling to enter. 

“ Yes ; if you are not engaged. Is Susan at her lessons ?” 

“ She was just going to say them ; but she can do something 
by herself, if you wish it, mamma,” and Eleanor retired. 

Several minutes passed before her return, more, it seemed, 
than were necessary, and Mrs. Wentworth had a hasty word on 
her lips in consequence; but it was not uttered, and served 
only to give a sadder tone to her voice, as she said, “ I 
would not have interrupted you, my dear, if there had not 
been a necessity.” 

A little awkwardness was perceptible in Eleanor’s manner as 
she approached her mother ; and a certain consciousness that the 
necessity alluded to was not an agreeable one. 

“ You were very late returning from the castle last night, my 
love,” continued Mrs. Wentworth. “I did not like to vex you 
by saying anything about it at theYime ; but I was sorry. I did 
not expect, indeed, that you would have stayed to dine.” 

“ I did not mean to do it,” replied Eleanor ; “ but we went 
out driving and riding, and came back late ; and then Lady 
Charlton and Adelaide persuaded me, and I thought you would 
not be angry.” 

“ Adelaide,” repeated Mrs. Wentworth in a musing tone ; but 
she made no other comment upon the familiarity. “ I am not 
angry, my dear child,” she added ; “ and, perhaps, I should not 
even be vexed if you were alone.” 

“ You are afraid for Charles,” replied Eleanor ; “ but, 

mamma, it is his only amusement.” 

“ Yes, I know it ; but it makes me very anxious.” 

Eleanor looked steadily in her mother’s face, whilst a smile, 
Vhich she vainly strove to repress, stole over her features, as she 
said, “ You are afraid of his falling in love, mamma ?” 

“ Falling in love, my dear ! No !” and Mrs. Wentworth’s 
lips curled in disgust. “ I could never fear that Charles would 


THE earl’s daughter. 


145 


fall in love with anything so vain and frivolous as Miss 
Charlton ; but I am afraid of his being led on to say and do 
foolish things ; to flatter and talk nonsense, and go further than 
he knows ; to flirt in fact : and I am afraid of your seeing it, 
and perhaps being induced to join in it in a certain way. I 
could not bear that sort of thing, Eleanor; it would be so 
utterly against my taste, not to put it upon higher grounds.” 

“ Charles likes Miss Charlton very well,” said Eleanor ; “ but 
he does not really care for her.” 

“ I do not see that it makes much difierence whether he does 
or does not,” replied Mrs. Wentworth ; “ for a young man just 
preparing for ordination to waste his time and lower his charac- 
ter by dancing attendance upon a silly girl, whom he does not 
care for, merely because he wants amusement, is, to say the least, 
unworthy.” 

“The Charltons will be going soon,” said Eleanor. “Lady 
Charlton talks of spending the winter at Senilhurst, and taking 
Blanche with her.” 

“ Indeed !” Mrs. Wentworth’s face brightened instantly. 

“ Yes ; it is nearly settled but Eleanor looked as much 
vexed as her mother was relieved. 

Mrs. Wentworth observed the expression of her face : “ My 
dear child, you must forgive me for being glad ; I do feel for 
you.” 

Eleanor only drew up with an air of reserve, and said, “ I am 
not disappointed ; I have known that it must be so from the 
beginning.” 

“ It will smooth every difiiculty if they go,” continued Mrs. 
Wentworth, evidently trying to be frank and unconstrained 
“ that was why I sent for you, Eleanor, to know jf you could tell 
me anything of their movements. If they were to remain, I 
must urge your father to make some other arrangement for 
Charles. I have such a great dread of the intimacy. Can you 
not understand me ?” she added, watching Eleanor’s counte- 
nance narrowly. “ I think you must see yourself how bad it is.” 

“ Certainly,” replied Eleanor, flattered by her mother’s confi- 
dence, “ Adelaide Charlton is not the person to improve him ; 
but, there is more in her, mamma, than you would give her 
credit for.” 

“ That may be ; but Charles must have a superior wife, if he 
is ever to do anything in life. He must marry a woman whom 
he respects.” 

“ And loves, too,” said Eleanor. 


146 


THE earl’s daughter. 


“ Yes, assuredly ; but the love in which tliere is no respect is 
but a broken reed to rest upon. However, I need not take up 
your time any longer, my love. If Lady Charlton goes soon, 
all my trouble will be at an end ; and, in the mean time, I must 
trust to you not to do more than you can help in bringing them 
together.” 

“ I will not do anything you dislike, dear mamma,” was 
Eleanor’s reply ; “ if you will only look less anxious than you 
did when I came in.” 

“ Anxious, did I ? My face is not generally a tell-tale ?” 

“ I understand it always,” answered Eleanor. “ You have 
been uncomfortable very often lately,” 

Mrs. Wentworth did not contradict the assertion. 

“ I think you would be happier,” added Eleanor, “ if tue castle 
was far off ; and yet, mamma,” and she hesitated, “ you suflfered 
me to be brought up with Blanche.” 

“ Yes, I did ; possibly it was a mistake.” Mrs. Wentworth 
thought for a few moments, and then continued, “ Yet I acted 
for the best at the time. When you first went to Mrs. Howard 
I was very ill ; I could not take proper care of you myself. 
Mrs. Howard urged me to let you go for the sake of Lady 
Blanche, and for her mother’s sake. At that time there seemed 
little probability that Lord Rutherford would ever settle perma- 
nently in England ; or, if he did, that he would choose to reside 
at Rutherford. The circumstances under which he left it were 
such that I myself could not have contemplated his return. He 
has another place in the north ; I imagined that he would have 
preferred it. Yet it might have been an error, a want of due 
forethought. Oh ! Eleanor, you will not make me regret it !” 

Eleanor’s feelings were touched by the earnestness with which 
her mother spoke. “ Mamma !” she exclaimed, “ I have been 
foolish, I know, of late ; but, indeed, you may trust me. I can 
only learn good from Blanche, and I cannot really be led away 
by a person like Adelaide Charlton.” 

“ God forbid you ever should be, my love,” replied Mrs. 
Wentworth. “You do not know all that such an influence 
brings ; how it lowers, wastes, vitiates the whole tone of the cha- 
racter ; how its efiects are felt for years and years. Such a mind 
as yours, Eleanor, if it is not bent upon the highest objects, 
destroys itself; it cannot rest in mean pursuits, and it turns 
inward and gnaws at the root of its own happiness. And you 
may be— shall I tell you what you may be ? — what I have 
sometimes pleased myself by imagining you to be 


THE earl’s daughter. 


147 


“ Something much better than I can ever imagine myself, I 
am sure,” said Eleanor. 

“ Yet nothing beyond your power,” continued her mother. “A 
woman with all a woman’s tastes, and gentleness, and modesty ; 
yet earnest, untiring, exalted in your aims, enlarged in your 
views, sufficient for your own happiness, from having fixed it 
where alone it may be safely centred, whilst living in the hap- 
piness of others, because your whole life is devoted to the pro- 
motion of their welfare ; and having a power over their minds, 
because you have kept such a strict watch over your own. That 
is what you may be.” 

“ And what shall I be, mamma ?” The question was put in 
a tone of great thoughtfulness. 

, Mrs. Wentworth paused, and her voice sank again into its 
quiet stillness, as she said, “ One only knows.” 

“ But tell me ; help me, if you can,” said Eleanor ; “ tell me 
what I must be if I am not what you describe. Mamma, it may 
do me more good than you can think.” 

“ Would you wish to hear ?” replied Mrs. Wentworth. “ You 
will think me exaggerating, yet I have watched the downward 
progress of many characters like yours, and the general outline 
is alike in all. First, self-dissatisfaction and a longing for the 
respect which might be deserved, and then an endeavour to be 
satisfied with mere admiration instead ; admiration becoming 
necessary, and sinking gradually into the craving of a miserable 
vanity ; and this changing in old age into a sharp, cynical nar- 
rowness of mind, which is wretchedness to itself and others. I 
am not speaking in the least too strongly, Eleanor. I have seen 
it, and grieved over it ; and the first symptom has always been 
that fickleness of action, though not of intention, in little things, 
which you are always regretting.” 

“ And never amending,” said Eleanor. “ Mamma, I must do 
so, I will.” The house-bell rang at that moment ; Eleanor 
coloured deeply. “ It is Adelaide Charlton,” she said. “ I did 
very wrong ; I asked her to come.” 

Mrs. Wentworth strove hard not to show her real annoyance. 

“She shall stay but a few minutes,” continued Eleanor. 
“ She has only to look over some music, and she knows I shall 
be busy.” 

Miss Charlton was announced in the drawing-room. 

Mrs. Wentworth rose and said she would receive her, and, 
collecting her letters, was preparing to go, when Dr. Went- 
worth’s voice was hear':) The meeting at the Union was 


148 


THE earl’s daughter. 


deferred ; lie was returned unexpectedly, and he came to the 
window to say so. 

“ I want you, my dear, particularly. I must have you for a 
few minutes to go into the village with me.” 

“ Is it really necessary ? There are visitors in the drawing- 
room.” 

“ What visitors ? Only Miss Charlton. Charles and Eleanor 
will entertain her.” 

Mrs. Wentworth’s conscience smote her for the pride which 
had made her shut up from her husband the anxieties which she 
imagined he could not sympathise with. Now, when she 
wanted his assistance, he was working unknowingly against 
her. 

“ Indeed, I must have you, my dear,” he continued. “ I am 
in a hurry.” 

Mrs. Wentworth could say no more ; but she looked at 
Eleanor as she joined him, and Eleanor answered the look with 
“ Adelaide will only stay a few minutes. I shall not let her 
do so.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“ I HOPE I am not interrupting you,” began Adelaide Charl- 
ton, as Eleanor welcomed her with a gravity of manner which 
she could not hide. 

“ Oh ! pray don’t name it. I shall find the music I men- 
tioned almost immediately,” and Eleanor began searching for 
it hurriedly ; inquiring at the same time for every one at the 
castle. 

Adelaide rattled on in her usual style. They must have had 
a bad night, she supposed, for they all seemed cross ; but she 
made a point of never inqniring what was the matter. She had 
left Maude and Blanche in close conversation ; but, of course, 
she did not know what it was about : they were becoming such 
des])erate friends, it would not do to pry into their secrets. 

Eleanor bent over the music-stand, and regretted that the 
lost piece of music was not forthcoming ; but promised to look 
for it, and send it to the castle in the course of the day. 

“ Oh ! it does not signify ;” was Adelaide’s indifferent reply. 
“ One never really cares for any particular piece ; I dare say 
you have a good many that I don’t know. May I look ?” She 


THE earl’s daughter. 


149 


took up a piece of music, hummed a few notes, thought it 
seemed pretty, and seated herself at the piano to try it. “ Aw- 
fully difficult all this style of music is, and not in good taste, 
people say; at least, Maude says so, and she is the oracle. 
After all, instrumental music is worth nothing compared with 
vocal. How badly your brother and I sang last night ! We 
really must practise before we exhibit again. Don’t you think 
it would be a good thing to have practising days ?” 

“ If one had time, it might be,” said Eleanor. 

“ Oh, but we must make time. I have no notion of persons 
not finding sufficient time for anything they wish. I protest, 
there is that enchanting trio we were talking of ; you must 
try it.” 

“ A trio for two persons !” said Eleanor, laughing ; “ that will 
not quite do.” 

“ Never mind ; just try our part.” 

She struck the first few chords; Eleanor grew hopeless of 
escape. Adelaide’s visit was fi'om her own invitation, and she 
could not summon courage to shorten it by confessing her 
engagements. 

“ You very good people are so methodical,” continued 
Adelaide ; “ you quite put one to the blush. I declare, to see 
the way Blanche goes on is enough to convert one into an 
automaton. I must have some music this morning to put me 
in good humour.” 

“ Can that ever be needed ?” asked a voice from behind her ; 
and to Eleanor’s extreme annoyance, her brother joined them. 

Adelaide Charlton’s manner showed instantaneously the 
working of her mind. There was a little blushing, a little ban- 
tering, a good many quick upward glances, interspersed with a 
few downcast modest ones ; some pretty nonsense about music 
and flowers, and a pretence at shyness, when Mr. Wentworth 
asked her to sing, with an evident disinclination to leave off" 
when she had begun. It was vanity, unmistakeable ; and Elea- 
nor stood by and compared Adelaide’s flirting with her own 
dignity ; and, in the pleasure of self-satisfaction, forgot her 
mother’s caution and her own promises. And so the minutes 
went by, and Eleanor satisfied herself that the waste of time 
could not be avoided, and therefore it could not be wrong to 
enjoy it. And she did enjoy it in a measure. 

There is generally something agreeable in that sort of light, 
quick conversation which accompanies music, and Adelaide 
Charlton was not deficient in talent of a certain kind. She had 


150 


THE earl’s daughter. 


travelled and could relate amusing adventures herself, and assist 
Mr. Wentworth in remembering his ; and she had seen more 
of the world than Eleanor, and laughed at many of her simple 
notions ; she was older also, and had been presented at court, 
and was acquainted with people of rank and fashion. These 
were all ingredients of influence, especially wdien mingled with 
them was the thought, “ Notwithstanding all these advantages, 
I am the superior.” 

“ And now, Charles, we really must be steady,” was at length 
Eleanor’s faint endeavour to stop the flow of the conversation. 
“ I am doing very wrong in staying here, and you are doing 
very wrong too, Adelaide. I must be rude and send you away, 
or we shall both get into disgrace.” 

Adelaide started from her seat ; “ Go, must I ? Well, I sup- 
pose I have been here an immense time. I did not mean to 
stay a quarter of an hour. Mr. Wentworth, I must trouble you 
to return my glove : you seem bent upon keeping possession of 
it ; but I am afraid it will not be quite as useful to you as to 
me.” She held out her hand, and to her surprise, the glove 
was given as a matter of course, and Mr. Wentworth turning 
suddenly to his sister, said, in a tone of quiet politeness, 
“ Eleanor, you do not see — Lady Blanche Evelyn.” 

Blanche was at the window, and Mr. Wentworth stepped 
forward to open it. His manner was quite different ; thought- 
ful and respectful, as if some sudden spell had been cast over 
him. Yet Blanche was thoroughly at her ease, smiled and 
shook hands, and rallied him upon his musical mania. Perhaps 
he saw that the words were words of course, spoken to smoothe 
the little stiffness of the party, for there was no real gaiety in 
what she said. She looked ill and harassed, and when 
Adelaide declared her intention to return to the castle, Blanche 
made no remark, and allowed her to say “ Good b’ye,” without 
asking her to wait. So Adelaide, after a little more lingering 
and sighing, and laughing, departed, taking care when she had 
gone a few steps to attract attention, by an “ Oh ! Mr. Went- 
worth, I forgot which drew him after her, and induced him 
to accompany her more than half-way home. 

Eleanor stood watching them until they were fairly out of 
sight, and then going up to Blanche, said, as she stooped to kiss 
her, “ Blanche, I am thankful you are not your cousin Ade- 
laide.” 

Blanche smiled, and replied, “ Perhaps, I am glad too ; and 
vet that is wrong,” she added, correcting hei-self ; though one 


THE earl’s daughter. 


151 


may be glad one is not forced to lead tbe same life. But, 
Eleanor, I was not prepared for your having any one here ; and 
I thought Susan’s lesson would be over by this time. If Ade- 
laide has been with you that of course is impossible.” 

Eleanor had seldom felt less inclined to attend to lessons, and, 
as an excuse to herself, said, that Susan could do very well 
without her for the present ; she wished first to know what had 
brought Blanche to the rectory. 

“ Business that can wait very well,” replied Blanche, “ so 
please go, if you have anything to do, and I will sit here and 
write a letter till you are ready.” 

“ But you look fagged and worried, Blanche ; what has been 
going wrong ?” 

The eyes of Blanche filled with tears, but not one was suf- 
fered to escape, and, avoiding a direct reply, she said, “ I came 
here partly to tell you that we shall all probably go to Senil- 
hurst immediately.” 

Eleanor’s countenance betokened blank disappointment ; she 
was not prepared for such a sudden move. 

“Yes,” continued Blanche quickly, as if anxious to avoid 
questions ; “ it is my aunt’s wish, and I shall vex her if I refuse, 
and I don’t think papa will dislike it. My aunt says it is the 
best thing for me ; and, and I don’t much care myself 
what ” her voice failed her, and she burst into tears. 

Eleanor was at her side in an instant, soothing and caressing 
her, and entreating to be told what was the cause of her grief. 
Blanche seemed distressed at her own weakness, but had no 
power of controlling it when she had once given way. 

“ Oh, Eleanor !” she exclaimed, “ if they had only told me ; 
if they had not brought me up in ignorance !” 

“ Ignorance, dearest Blanche ! Of what ?” 

“ Of everything ; of what I ought to have known ; what all 
the world knows except myself,” replied Blanche, impetuously ; 
a feeling of pride mingling unperceived with her sorrow. 

“ All the world ! what ? how ?” inquired Eleanor, frightened 
at her unusual vehemence. 

“ You know,” continued Blanche, and she grasped her fi-iend’s 
arm, nervously, until Eleanor said, “ I can know nothing which 
you will not tell me ;” and then Blanche dropped her hand, and 
leaning her forehead upon the table, murmured, “ I am unkind 
too ! and I thought I had self-command !” 

“ You must not have self-command with me, dearest,” said 
Eleanor. “ If you cannot talk openly to me, whom can you 
go to ?” 


152 


THE earl’s daughter. 


“No one ; no one was the mournful answer. “ But 1 
think I could bear it better if I knew all. Oh, Eleanor ! are you 
sure ? did your mother never talk to you ? did she never tell 
you' of — of my own mother — my sweet mother?” she paused, 
and her voice sank almost to a whisper ; but it was a whisper 
clear and thrilling, and Eleanor’s cheek turned pale, and a 
shudder passed through her frame as she heard, “ Eleanor, she 
was insane.” 

There followed a long pause, until Eleanor said very gently, 
“ Mamma, if it is true, would tell you all.” 

Blanche shook her head : “ I could not ask her. I had a 
thought — a foolish one — that you might know.” 

“ No, never. Could I have hidden it from you ?” 

“ Perhaps so ; they all did. They thought it right ; it was a 
cruel kindness.” 

“ Are you quite certain it is true ?” asked Eleanor. 

“ Maude says so ; and I feel it. I understand things now. 
Oh ! if I could have comforted her but for one hour !” and 
Blanche groaned in agony for the past, whilst Eleanor trembled 
at the horrible train of thought which in those few moments had 
been conjured up for the future. 

Blanche recovered herself by degrees. She related what had 
passed with Maude, and showed Eleanor how the fact was con- 
firmed by her mother’s papers, and the strange silence and mys- 
tery in which everything connected with her was involved. She 
seemed to shrink from any attempt to persuade her into 
disbelief. “ It was better,” she said, “ to face the truth at 
once ; that was what she was now longing to do entirely. A 
few days ago she could have gone to her aunt ; but there had 
been an unhappy misunderstanding ; she scarcely knew how it 
had arisen ; from some foolish changeableness of her own, she 
believed. It had worried Lady Charlton extremely, and she had 
not recovered it. There is no one besides her, except your 
mother,” continued Blanche, and Eleanor assented. She did 
not venture to ask why Lord Rutherford’s name was not men- 
tioned. 

“ And why should you not go to mamma ?” she said, as 
Blanche again repeated her longing wish to hear the particu- 
lars of her mother’s history. 

The answer was given with some reluctance : “ Because I am 
afraid of her.” 

“ Afraid of her ! so good, and gentle, and charitable, as she 
is. Oh, Blanche!” 


THE earl’s daughter. 


153 


“ Yet still I am afraid. Do you know what it is to have an 
intuitive perception of being misunderstood — misjudged ? Her 
interest in you absorbs her ; and well it may. It is a mother’s 
love.” Blanche turned away her head to hide her unbidden 
tears. “ I am very wrong to regret,” she added, “ only some- 
times I think that, if my mother had lived, I might have been 
better ; but then ” 

It was an awful thought which suggested itself to both, and 
Eleanor, willing to divert it, said “ Even a mother’s love, Blanche, 
cannot always be our safeguard.” 

“ It seems so, as if it must be,” replied Blanche, musingly. 
“ Your home, and its quietness and peace ; all your time 
marked out, and your duties fixed, and a friend to go to always ; 
it must be safer than mine.” 

Eleanor made no direct answer. “ When do you go to Senil- 
hurst ?” she said abruptly. 

“ Directly, I think ; but the day is not fixed.” 

This was said with an air of such melancholy indifference as 
to recall Eleanor from all thoughts of herself. 

“ You must be made happier before you go, Blanche,” she 
exclaimed. 

“ That cannot be. I must try and bear it, and the pain may 
lessen.” 

“ But not the ignorance and mystery ; and if you chose, there 
would be nothing easier than to learn everything. Mamma 
would tell you every little detail, if she thought you were aware 
of the truth ; and you would feel her value then.” 

Blanche recollected the request for her mother’s picture, and 
was silent. 

Just then Mrs. Wentworth came into the room, accompanied 
by Susan. Blanche looked nervous and agitated. Mrs. Went- 
worth spoke to her, but seemed to have an instant perception 
that all was not right; and addressing Eleanor reminded her 
that the morning was fast passing away, and that Susan’s lessons 
could not possibly be finished in time if she was left to herself. 
“ I make no apology to Lady Blanche,” she added ; “ she will 
not require it. lam glad you have been detained by her.” A 
meaning stress was laid upon the pronoun, and Eleanor’s sincere 
conscience would not suffer her to misunderstand it. 

“ Blanche has been here but a short time,” she said. “ Ade- 
laide Charlton stayed longer than I thought she would, and 
Charles came in, and they sang.” 

« Oh!” 


7 * 


154 


THE earl’s daughter. 


There was no further remark or comment. Eleanor kissed 
her mother, and the kiss was returned warmly ; but the sigh 
which accompanied it spoke volumes of disappointment. Mi*s. 
Wentworth sat down when she was gone ; her manner was less 
self-possessed than usual. She asked a few unconnected ques- 
tions, and when Blanche mentioned the plan of going to Senil- 
hurst directly, she did not appear to take in the idea; her mind 
was wandering to another subject. At length, Blanche asked if 
she might stay and write a letter, and occupy herself till Eleanor 
was at leisure again ; and this seemed' to put Mrs. Wentworth 
at ease, and she placed the portfolio for her, and laughed at the 
bad pens which she had to offer, and afterwards, saying she 
would leave her at liberty, went away. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“ Your master is much better this morning, Pearson,” said 
Lady Charlton, addressing the civil man-servant, as he stood 
aside, condensing himself into the smallest possible compass, 
while she passed. 

“ Rather better, my lady. I am afraid he has been in a good 
deal of pain the last half-hour.” 

“ But he is better, Pearson ; a good deal. Mr. Stone said so 
yesterday. He will be able to go to Senilhurst soon.” 

“ Certainly, my lady ; certainly, if you wish it. Did you say 
soon ?” 

“ Yes ; very soon ; next week. Your master will be quite 
ready for the journey by that time.” 

“ Certainly, my lady ;” and a faint smile played upon the. 
lips of the well-instructed Pearson. “ The change is to do him 
good, I imagine, my lady.” 

“ Of course ; and this weather will do very well for travelling ; 
later in the season might be running a risk.” 

“ Certainly, my lady ; and it might be bad for your ladyship 
and the young ladies.” 

“ Yes ; in feet, we must be at Senilhurst next week. Lord 
Rutherford and Lady Blanche will accompany us.” Pearson 
bowed low. “ I shall see your master presently, Pearson.” 
Another bow. 

Lady Charlton w^ent to the drawing-room, and Pearson 
repaired to the library, to see if the fire was getting low. The 


THE earl’s daughter. 


155 


glance with which Sir Hugh repaid his attention was discourag- 
ing ; so were his words. As usual, they were a reproach for the 
length of time he had been left, and, as usual, Pearson made no 
attempt at explanation, and only answered, “ Very sorry. Sir 
Hugh ; extremely sorry ; might I be allowed ? — I think I could 
put your pillow more comfortable.” 

“ Not at all ; I don’t want to be comfortable. Left alone 
two full hours ! it’s unbearable.” 

“ I was certainly forgetful,” began Pearson. 

“ Forgetful ! idiot, you forget everything ! Where’s my 
medicine ?” 

Pearson poured it out, and as he handed it to his master, ven- 
tured to observe that the day was so fine, he hoped it might do 
for a drive. 

“ Where is the good of driving ?” muttered Sir Hugh, “ the 
hills stop one at eveiy half-mile.” 

“ Exactly what I was saying to the bailiff just now. Sir Hugh. 
Mr. Denham, said I, this place is very different from Senilhurst. 
There we have a fine open country, where my master can drive 
about and get plenty of fresh air ; beautiful soft in the valleys, 
bracing upon the downs. Trust me, if you could come to Senil- 
hurst, you would never wish to go back to Rutherford.” 

“ Then you talked nonsense, Pearson,” exclaimed Sir Hugh 
more mildly than before. 

Pearson did not seem to notice the interruption, but went on, 
“ Mr. Denham is hard of belief ; a very narrow mind ; never 
has travelled at all. Sir Hugh. He wouldn’t credit a word I 
told him of your crop of turnips the year before last ?” Sir 
Hugh leaned his head upon his hand in a soothed attitude. 
“ Wonderful, those turnips were !” continued Pearson ; “ but, as I 
told Mr. Denham, — my master, said I, understands these things ; 
he’s an experienced gentleman ; he takes nothing upon trust.” 

“ And Denham wouldn’t believe you, eh ?” said Sir Hugh. 

“ Wouldn’t believe a word,” said Pearson ; “ said there never 
was such a crop known, and he couldn’t understand it. But, said 
I, Mr. Denham, it’s not for you and me to try and understand 
these things. My master is a man of science, and what he does 
he does upon principle — strict principle ; the turnips, d’ye see, 
gi-ew upon principle.” 

“ Hem, nonsense,” muttered Sir Hugh, whilst the frown upon 
his forehead gradually subsided, and a pleased smile stole over 
his features. “ Why don’t you bring him to Senilhurst, Pear- 
son, instead of trying to talk him over here ?” 


156 


THE earl’s daughter. 


“ Undoubtedly, Sir Hugh ; it’s the only thing to be done ; 
but, as I said, if we are to stay the winter at Eutherford, there 
is no good in thinking of Senilhurst.” 

“ And who said we were to spend the winter at Rutherford ?” 
inquired Sir Hugh sharply. 

“ I understood from my lady,” began Pearson ; but Sir Hugh 
broke in, “ I have told you fifty times before, Pearson, that you 
are to understand from me ; your lady knows nothing about the 
matter.” 

“ I imagined it was my lady’s wish,” began Pearson again. 

“ And what did you think then was my wish ? Did you sup- 
pose that I meant to be cooped up here for the next six months, 
with nothing to do but to follow your lady’s beck and call ?” 

“ My lady seemed to think it was fixed,” continued Pearson, 
“ and of course it was not my place to say anything ; though I 
could see, like every one else. Sir Hugh, that it would be better 
for you to be at home.” 

“And what is to hinder me from going home ?” inquired Sir 
Hugh?” 

“ Nothing, sir, nothing ; if you desire it ; only my lady ” 

“ Don’t talk to me of your lady ; my will is her will.” 

“ Unquestionably, Sir Hugh ; and no doubt my lady’s 
health, and that of the young ladies, would be materially 
benefited. As I said to Mr. Denham, Senilhurst air is quite 
renovating.” 

“ And what did Denham say to that ?” 

“ He was amazed. Sir Hugh ; never saw a man more so. 
Mr. Pearson, said he, Senilhurst must be a paradise. Mr. 
Denham, said I, it is.” 

“ Hem !” muttered Sir Hugh ; “ Denham’s got more sense 
than I gave him credit for. To see how he manages the estate 
here, one would think him an ignorant booby. Young Went- 
worth knows much more about farming than he does.” 

“ Mr. Wentworth has had great advantages,” observed 
Pearson, “ going about with a gentleman of such experience as 
yourself. Sir Hugh.” 

“ Wentworth’s a sensible fellow,” continued Sir Hugh : “ he 
has his eyes about him, and he’s not conceited. He has my 
geology pamphlet by heart ; in fact, he’s quite the life of the 
place.” 

“ Mr. Wentworth would take a great interest in the farming 
at Senilhurst,” said Pearson insinuatingly. 

“ Yes, he might ; he would, I think. There would be a good 


THE earl’s daughter. 


157 


deal for him to learn there and Sir Hugh fell into a short 
reverie, which was apparently caused by some difficulty in the 
contemplated return home, as he tapped his finger on the table 
and began reckoning — “ Lady Charlton, one ; Maude and Ady, 
three ; young Wentworth, four; it’s one too many.” 

“ The earl and Lady Blanche will have a great loss in your 
absence. Sir Hugh,” began Pearson, a little alarmed at not 
hearing their names mentioned. 

“ Well, yes ; I suppose they ’will,” said Sir Hugh, stroking 
his chin ; “ the earl and I have pursuits in common, we are 
both literaiy men.” 

“ There’s a thought of his lordship and Lady Blanche re- 
maining here through the winter, I suppose,” said Pearson ; “ at 
least my lady seemed to say so the other day.” 

“ What should your lady know about it ?” exclaimed Sir 
Hugh ; “ the earl has no fixed plans, he told me so confiden- 
tially. If I were to ask him to Senilhurst he would go.” 

“ And be delighted, no doubt,” replied Pearson ; “ he has 
not been looking at all well lately.” 

“No wonder, living at this place. He and young Went- 
worth together.” — Sir Hugh mused again, but whether upon 
the travelling plans, or the probable indignation of Lady 
Charlton if he presumed to give Mr. Wentworth an invitation 
to Senilhurst, it is impossible to say. The difficulty which 
perplexed him, whatever it was, seemed, however, to be insur- 
mountable, for after the silence of a few minutes, he exclaimed, 
“ It wont do ; no, it won’t do ; and after all, spring is the best 
time for seeing a place. If we stay here a few weeks longer 
we shall help them on into the winter, and they can come to us 
early in the spring.” 

Pearson was in dismay ; but he was a man of singular 
patience, and having reached the point from which he had 
started, he steadily set forth to traverse the same ground again ; 
pulling Sir Hugh one way, in the conviction that he would be 
sure to go the other, until at length he had once more brought 
him to face the possibility of removing to Senilhurst immedi- 
ately, taking Lord Rutherford and Lady Blanche with them, 
and giving an indirect invitation to Mr. Wentworth to follow at 
his earliest convenience. This last resolution, however, Sir 
Hugh did not fail to qualify by repeating, “I shan’t invite him ; 
I hate regular invitations. Only if he likes it of course he will 
be welcome. Mind, Pearson, I have no intention of inviting 
him.” 


158 


THE earl’s daughter. 


Pearson assented both to the letter and the spirit of this 
declaration, and having arranged his master’s pillows for about 
the twentieth time since the conversation began, ventured to 
suggest that Lady Charlton might be glad to know of Sir 
Hugh’s definite plan. A gracious permission was given, and 
Sir Hugh raised himself in his arm-chair to look imposing, and 
spreading a blank sheet of paper before him, chose a new pen 
that he might make a legible list of imperative ordei’S for the 
journey. 

“ Sir Hugh would be glad to speak with you, my lady,” 
said Pearson, as he met Lady Charlton at the foot of the stairs. 
His face was impenetrable, but his self-satisfied tone showed that 
all difificulties had been smoothed away. 

“ I will be with him directly,” was Lady Cnarlton’s soft 
reply ; and Pearson went off to the servants’ hall, charmed at 
his own cleverness, in having ruled his master, pleased his 
mistress, and been instrumental in suggesting an idea, which he 
had good reason to think would gratify one at least of the 
^ young ladies ; and all without committing himself. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

It was not a long interview between Sir Hugh and Lady 
Charlton ; no interviews of this kind ever were long ; for Lady 
Charlton, when she had once gained a point, took care not to 
dwell sufficiently upon it to give time for a change of feeling. 
The determination of returning to Senilhui-st was especially 
important to her at this moment, as the neighbourhood of the 
Rectory was, in her eyes, becoming every day more undesirable. 
Even if the earl and Blanche persisted in remaining at Ruther- 
ford, she had resolved to go ; but independently of her own 
pleasure, their society would, she knew, be a great inducement 
to Sir Hugh to consent to her wishes. His vanity would be 
flattered by the idea of showing Blanche his own place and his 
own plans ; and, as she had calculated upon this as the easy 
mode of obtaining her point, she was the more provoked at the 
indecision which Blanche had evinced. Still she did not doubt 
of gaining her object eventually. Pearson’s skill was almost 
always successful in winning Sir Hugh’s consent, even against 
his favourite wishes ; and Blanche was too gentle not to be 
easily brought round. Yet Lady Charlton allowed no surprise 


THE earl’s daughter. 159 

or satisfaction to be visible when she entered the library. She 
was quietly indifferent, and even put a few obstacles in the way 
of a sudden removal ; obstacles which, of course, only strength- 
ened Sir Hugh’s resolution, and gave him a sense of power in 
showing the clever way in which he could surmount them. 

“ Lord Rutherford and Blanche must be talked over,” he 
said ; and Lady Charlton agreed ; not even a smile betraying 
that the suggestion had been made to them previously. 

The day of departure was next to be fixed. Sir Hugh named 
it — determined the hour of starting — wrote down the names of 
the few villages through which they were to pass before they 
reached a railway station, and the time which the distance might 
be expected to take ; and then proceeded to copy out the after 
details of the journey from a railway guide. Lady Charlton 
assisting him by reading out 11*25, 12*50, &c., in due succes- 
sion. 

When, at length, the word Senilhurst was written, in legible 
characters, at the bottom of the paper, announcing the termina- 
tion of the journey. Sir Hugh threw himself back in his chair 
and exclaimed, “ There, my dear ; now I think I have done my 
part. I have saved you all the trouble of arrangement, and you 
will have nothing in the world to do but just to obey orders — 
the easiest thing of all — just to obey orders — nothing more. 
We leave this place at half-past eight precisely; we reach Senil- 
hurst at twenty minutes past six. Don’t trouble youi-self ; don’t 
distress yourself about anything : you see when a man is once 
accustomed to this sort of thing it becomes quite easy. You 
may tell Maude and Ady, if you like it ; but it will be as well 
to leave Rutherford to me. Gentlemen always manage these 
things best with each other. I shall hint my wishes gently, and 
bring him round by degrees.” 

“ Perhaps it might be the best way,” said Lady Charlton, and 
she rose to leave the room. 

“ Stop, my dear Frances ; Lady Charlton, you are in such a 
hurry. Sit down, will you. One thing we have forgotten — 
dinner. Let me see ; we start at half-past eight ; we reach 
Walton at 10; Ditchley, 12*35; Hoxley Road, 2*40; Sun- 
bridge, 5*15 ; reckoning a quarter of an hour for delay ; Senil- 
hurst, 6*20 ; that leaves us forty minutes — one hour and forty 
minutes till eight o’clock. Will one hour and forty minutes be 
sufficient ? Consider now — to settle yourselves — dress — be, in 
fact, quite ready for dinner ! Can you promise to be in the 
drawing-room by eight ?” 


160 


THE earl’s daughter. 


Lady Charlton thought there would be no difficulty. 

“Very well, then, that is another point decided. You may 
write to Mrs. Corrie, and tell her to have dinner ready at eight 
precisely. And, stay, don’t I hear Lord Rutherford’s voice ?” 
The earl opened the door. “ The very person I wanted to see. 
I must have a few words with you ; I must consult you.” 

But Lord Rutherford interrupted him. “ I beg your pardon ; 
I will return to you, but, at this moment, I have pressing busi- 
ness. Lady Charlton, can you give me a few moments of your 
leisure ?” The tone was unusually haughty, and before Lady 
Charlton had time to answer he was gone. — 

Lady Charlton followed him instantly, in spite of Sir Hugn’s 
entreaties that she would wait and consider what further arrange- 
ments were to be made. 

Lord Rutherford went before her till he reached his private 
study, the door of which he opened, and motioned to her to 
enter it, and then closing and bolting it carefully, he sat down 
opposite to her. Lady Charlton turned pale. There was some- 
thing in his countenance which would, in itself, have been suffi- 
cient to alarm her ; a look of hardly repressed indignation, 
reproach, and over-excited feeling : a curling lip — a frowning 
brow — a fire in his flashing eye, only softened by the indescrib- 
able expression of mental anguish that pervaded his whole 
countenance. He did not speak for some moments, but sat 
resting his forehead upon his hand. Lady Charlton tried to 
shake oft' her fear. She went up to him, laid her hand upon 
his shoulder, and said in a light, unconstrained tone, “You 
must not treat me in this way. I must know at once what is 
the matter.” 

He looked up and said sternly, “ You can tell.” 

Lady Charlton’s tone was unchanged as she replied, “ You 
are mistaken. I know nothing that has happened to put you 
into this strange mood.” 

“Not that you have deceived me — betrayed me — broken 
your most solemn promise ?” 

A momentary indignation clouded Lady Charlton’s face, but 
she subdued the rising feeling, and said gravely but calmly, 
“ My dear Rutherford, this is not language which I ought to 
hear. I have not betrayed, or deceived you, or broken any 
solemn promise ; and I have not the most remote idea what it 
is you refer to. I must insist upon your explaining yourself 
more clearly.” 

“ You have told her,” he said, “ you have done the very thing 


THE earl’s daughter. 


161 


which” — he stopped, and Lady Charlton said eagerly, “ Blanche ? 
do you mean that she knows ?” 

“ All that I would have kept from her at any sacrifice. Frances, 
I thought that I could have trusted you better.” 

Lady Charlton looked extremely pained, and the colour 
rushed to her cheeks as she said hesitatingly, “ It was not I who 
told her.” 

“ No,” exclaimed the earl, “ it was not you ; it was Maude. 
But from whom did Maude learn such facts ? and who put it 
into my darling’s head to inquire ?” 

Lady Charlton recovered from her embarrassment when this 
question was asked reproachfully. 

“ You are still speaking mysteries,” she said ; “ if you will 
say clearly what you refer to, I will. give you the best explana- 
tion I can.” 

“ They are simple facts,” replied the earl, sarcastically ; 
“ Blanche was missing this morning when I wanted her ; I went 
to her room, and found her in an agony of grief. When I would 
have forced her to tell me what distressed her, she said — you 
know what she said. She knew it. Her whole life is embit- 
tered — her happiness is blighted — her love for me — but I will 
not think of that — I dare not.” 

“ And Maude told her ?” inquired Lady Charlton. 

“ Yes, Maude told her.” 

“ And what ? how much does Blanche know ?” 

“ Ho you think I could bear to ask ?” exclaimed the earl, bit- 
terly, “ Was it a story that I could endure to have the details 
repeated ; that I could listen patiently whilst my child described 
her own misery ?” 

“ It might have been as well,” said Lady Charlton, coldly ; 
“you might have spared me much pain, and yourself much 
after-reproach for injustice. Maude has heard from me httle 
beyond what all the world is acquainted with. What she may 
have guessed or learnt from other sources I cannot answer for. 
She is of an inquisitive disposition ; from a child she was 
strangely interested in the fate of my most unhappy sister. To 
satisfy her, I told her the bare fact of her melancholy depres- 
sion of spirits ; but of other suffering's,” — and Lady Charlton’s 
voice became eager, and her eye kindled as she went on — “ of 
neglect, loneliness, disappointed affection ; trials which crushed 
her intellect, and brought her to an early grave, I said nothing.” 

Lord Rutherford sank upon a chair and groaned. 

“ It may seem cruel to upbraid you now with an error of 


162 


THE earl’s daughter. 


judgment,” continued Lady Charlton ; “ but, in my own justifi- 
cation, I must remind you that you were long since warned 
against, the mistake of keeping from Blanche the secret of her 
mother’s history.” 

“ I did not wish to keep it from her,” exclaimed the earl, 
starting from his seat; “But I w^ould have prepared her for it, 
gradually. I would, yes,” he added, his voice sinking from its 
tone of proud excitement into an accent of the most mournful 
tenderness, “ I would have won her to myself, — I would have 
made myself her all, and then I would have appealed to her 
love,— her reverence, — her devotion, — for pardon.” 

“ You must have had sympathies in common first,” , said 
Lady Charlton, with a quiet sarcasm which escaped her almost 
involuntarily. 

The earl writhed under the' censure which he knew was 
intended, yet he answered firmly, “ We have many, — art, and 
taste, and refinement.” 

“ And religion !” added Lady Charlton. 

Lord Rutherford bit his lip, and was silent. 

“ That is the key to her affections,” continued Lady Charlton ; 
“ without it I fear you may find the barrier between you greater 
than you are aware of.” 

The earl regarded her steadily as if he would have said. Do 
not try me too far, — but Lady Charlton knew her own power — 
the power which almost necessarily accompanies the knowledge 
of a strong mind’s weakness — and she went on, “ If it were 
possible to humour her upon the point; — if you could, at what- 
ever sacrifice, bring yourself even to appear” — but the earl 
broke in upon the observation. 

“ Appear ! — to Blanche ! — to my own child ! — appear to be 
what I am not ? Oh ! Frances, how little you understand us 
both !” 

“ Blanche, at least, I understand,” said Lady Charlton calmly 
— “ she is like her mother.” 

The name acted like an electric shock upon Lord Ruther- 
ford. “ Yes,” he exclaimed shuddering, “ like her in form — in 
feature — in mind — in fate.” The last* word sank into a 
whisper. 

“ There is little fear of it,” replied Lady Charlton, “ except in 
your own imagination, and in possible circumstances, which are 
entirely under your control. Loneliness and want of sympathy 
preyed upon poor Emily’s mind. There was no positive here- 
ditary disease. Her case might be the case of any one in the 


THE earl’s daughter. 


163 


same situation. Loneliness, Blanche will never feel ; want of 
sympathy she may not, if ” 

^f,” repeated the earl, bitterly. “ I tell you, Frances, I have 
not the power, even if I had the will, to deceive my sweet child. 
Pure-minded, simple, transparent, and true as she is, the very 
earnestness of her own feelings must make her alive to hypocrisy 
in others. Would not the tone of my voice — the turn of my 
sentences, — would not every action of my life betray me ? No, 
better far that she should see me as I am-^— admire me for 
what I am — even hate me — hate me, if it were possible, for 
what I am not — than be the dupe of professions which must, 
sooner or later, be discovered, and bring wretchedness upon us 
both.” 

“ As you will,” replied Lady Charlton. “ It would be 
useless to try and persuade you, that I do not wish you either 
to deceive, or make a profession. All that I desire is, that you 
should not shock her — prejudices, as you call them — principles, 
as I call them.” She paused, but the earl was silent. “ You 
make the same sacrifice to the world continually,” pursued Lady 
Charlton ; “ you mix with persons whom you dislike ; you join 
in amusements which do not interest you.” 

“ Yes,” interrupted the earl vehemently ; “I make a sacrifice 
to the world, which the world sanctions and understands. I 
speak its own language, and take advantage of its permitted 
customs. It is not deceived by civilities and professions. But 
religion — Frances, I was never a hypocrite. If I had been, I 
might have spared myself the bitterness of this hour.” 

“I think you are unnecessarily anxious,” replied Lady Charlton. 

The earl did not notice the remark. He was engaged in his 
own reflections, and in an under tone he said, “ Poor child ! one 
could almost be inclined to envy her.” 

“ Can you envy what you consider error ?” replied Lady 
Charlton. 

“ Error !” repeated the earl, musingly. 

“ You think it so,” said Lady Charlton. 

He looked up quickly : “ Have you never, Frances, watched 
a sunset, and seen mountains, and islands, and glittering lakes 
amongst the clouds, and looked till you believed — till you 
almost knew them to be real ? So have I watched Blanche — 
dailj', hourly, since my return. She has been to me a vision of 
beauty and purity beyond all that I have known, or could have 
dreamt ; and I have gazed upon her until almost I could per- 
suade myself that her enthusiasm was reality.” 


164 


THE earl’s daughter. 


“ It is real, doubtless, to a certain extent,” replied Lady 
Charlton. “ Blanche is young, and a little carried away by 
feeling ; but her principles are unquestionably sound and high ; 
and we ought to be most grateful to Mrs. Howard for having 
made her what she is.” 

A sudden check seemed to have been given to Lord Ruther- 
ford’s earnestness. He drew himself up coldly, and said, “ We 
have wandered very far from our first subject. I should be glad 
to be quite assured that you have not disobeyed my wishes.” 

“ You are really provoking,” replied Lady Charlton, petu- 
lantly. “ I could never have taken upon myself such a responsi- 
bility. Blanche must have had her suspicions previously raised, 
and then exaggerated what Maude told her.” Lady Charlton 
stopped, and after considering for a moment added — “ You told 
me you had given her her mother’s papei’s.” 

“Yesterday; it was an impulse, after a conversation, a few 
words only, which passed between us. I felt they might 
interest her, for I saw she longed for sympathy, and 1 thought 
they might be something of a bond of closer union between us. 
But I had long before determined upon doing so when I could 
summon resolution.” 

“ They must have betrayed the secret,” said Lady Charlton. 

“ Impossible ! There were a few letters of my own, including 
some written years ago, and a journal ; you must remember it. 
I thought it might please Blanche, but there was little in it 
beyond extracts.” 

“ Are you sure that was all ?” inquired Lady Charlton. 

“ Certain. I destroyed every paper which was in any way 
painful before I left England.” 

“ Then it must have been Blanche’s own fancy,” said Lady 
Charlton, “ or — ” 

The earl turned to her hastily ; “ Or whom ? — what ?” 

“Or Mrs Wentworth !” 

“ Yes,” exclaimed Lord Rutherford, as if the idea had in an 
instant brought conviction to his mind ; “ yes, it must have been 
her. How could I have been so blind ? But I thought she 
knew my wishes through you.” 

“ I wrote to her,” said Lady Charlton, “ when you ^ first 
thought of returning to Rutherford, impressing upon her the 
necessity of caution. Her reply was stiff and unsatisfactory, 
like everything she does or says ; but I certainly could not have 
imagined Her capable of telling Blanche what you wanted to 
keep from her.” 


THE earl’s daughter. 


165 


“ She supposed it her duty, perhaps,” said Lord Rutherford, 
with a sneer. “ She is very much bent upon duty.” 

“ Her own and other persons, too, in this case,” observed 
Lady Charlton ; “ but you must not be hard upon her. Re- 
member, we have as yet only suspicion.” 

“ It shall be certainty, one way or the other, soon,” exclaimed 
the earl ; and without adding another word, he seized his hat, 
opened the window, and the next minute was walking at a 
rapid pace down the steep path which led to the rectory. 

Lady Charlton looked after him for a few seconds, and then 
murmuring to hereelf, “ Impetuous as ever ! but I have diverted 
his thoughts for the present,” she went to seek Maude, and give 
her a maternal and not very gentle reproof, for the extreme 
imprudence which had led her to divulge facts, only a portion 
of which had as yet been intended to reach the eai-s of 
Blanche. 

Lord Rutherford and Mrs. Wentworth disliked each other, as 
persons must do who, without mutual sympathy or respect, 
have been compelled by circumstances to learn the secrets of 
each other’s lives, without caring to know the secrets of the 
heart. Years before, when Lord Rutherford had brought his 
bride to her stately home, and offered her luxury and gaiety, 
she had turned from all to seek the companionship of Mrs. 
Wentworth. The earl was not jealous — he did not love suf- 
ficiently to care where his wife found happiness, as long as he 
w.'is not called upon to give up his own wishes to contribute to 
it ; but he chafed at the strictness of Mrs. Wentworth’s princi- 
ples, dreaded her influence, and was repulsed by the coldness 
of her manner — and the aversion was quickly reciprocal. If 
Mrs. Wentworth reverenced the Countess of Rutherford for her 
piety, and pitied her for her lonely position ; she could scarcely 
feel cordial towards the selfish, \vorldly husband, who by civil 
unkindness blighted her hopes and mocked her affections. And, 
as years went on, and absence and neglect did their fatal work 
in wrecking not only the peace, but the mind of the unhappy 
countess, the first feeling of dislike almost necessarily deepened 
into intensity. 

But that time was long gone by. The Countess of Ruther- 
ford was resting in her quiet grave, safe from the weariness of 
disappointment and the bitterness of unrequited love ; and the 
earl was returned to his home, to begin, as it were, a new life, 
and repay the debt which he owed to the memory of his wife 
by the devoted affection which he lavished upon her child. 


166 . 


THE earl’s daughter. 


The past was forgotten ; — so it seemed to many but himself; 
forgotten by the countess’s relations ; forgotten, if it had ever 
been remembered, by the world. Yet, was it so ? — does the 
tide of life indeed sweep by and bear away all traces of the joys 
and griefs, the good and evil, of our vanished years ; or is there, 
even upon earth, a record of the deeds of former days, written 
upon the memories of our friends and companions, and bearing 
a witness which few can recollect and feel towards us as if such 
things had never been ? 

But Lord Rutherford did Mrs. Wentworth great injustice, 
when he considered her capable of biassing the mind of his 
daughter in any way against himself ; or even of endeavouring 
to fix her affections upon her mother’s memory at his expense. 
Even if Mrs. Wentworth had felt for Blanche as she had once 
felt for the countess, she would have shrunk from such an act as 
worse than cruelty. But, in truth, she was not sufficiently 
attracted by the gentle girl, who seemed to have no will but 
her father’s, to attempt to gain an influence over her. She was 
interested in Blanche for her mother’s sake and for Eleanor’s ; 
but being a person of strong impulse and prepossessions, and 
peculiarly alive to the impression which she made upon others, 
she could not help seeing, from the very beginning of their 
acquaintance, that Blanche was not likely to seek her confidence. 
This was an offence which Mrs. Wentworth was not inclined 
easily to overlook. It awoke a sense of injustice, as if some- 
thing was denied her which she had a right to claim. Her 
natural stiffness and reserve also made her seek for the opposite 
qualities in others ; and symptoms of shyness, especially in 
young people, were generally attributed to some instinctive 
diflerence of feeling, caused possibly by her own defect of man- 
ner, which it would be useless to endeavour to overcome. Thus 
it was that, when Mrs. Wentworth was met with more than her 
own cordiality, she could love, and love intensely ; but when she 
did not love, she was indiflferent, and not unfrequently pre- 
judiced. 

Lord Rutherford knew nothing of all this. He was not an 
observer of human nature in general ; and seldom took the 
trouble to think what people were hke, or why they pleased or 
displeased him. A spoilt child from infancy, he only knew 
what offended his taste, or shocked his self-esteem, and avoided 
it. It was always an effort to him to be with Mrs. Wentworth, 
and he would have shunned, instead of seeking, an interview, if 
he had not been carried forward by indignation and something 


THE earl’s daughter. 16Y 

like levenge. For it is pleasant to onr unchecked natural 
instincts to have a clear cause of complaint against a person 
whom we dislike, and yet respect ; and, by the time the earl 
had reached the parsonage, he had worked himself up into the 
persuasion, not only that the accusation against Mrs. Wentworth 
was true, but that no extenuation could be offered. 

Blanche saw him pass the drawing-room window as she sat 
writing her letter and waiting for Eleanor, but she did not go to 
meet him. His look of anguish as he turned away from her, 
when in their short morning interview she. told him the cause 
of her distress, was still present to her recollection, and she 
dreaded to encounter it again. In her simplicity, she could not 
read its entire meaning ; but it had warned her that the subject 
must never again be alluded to, unless by him. The earl was 
shown into Mrs. Wentworth’s morning-room ; and through the 
thin partition Blanche could hear his voice, as the conversation 
began — first formal, and subdued, then gradually rising into 
energy and excitement; whilst Mrs. Wentworth’s answers 
seemed only rather more decided than usual. The interview 
was soon over ; Blanche heard, as she supposed, the parting 
words, and a pause followed. She thought her father was 
gone ; but as she drew near the window to see, she again caught 
Mrs. Wentworth’s voice. The words were distinctly audible — 
“ Your lordship must forgive me, if I earnestly warn you to be 
cautious. No one knows better than myself the many reasons 
for being so ; and, in pity to your child, you must remember, 
that the germ of the evil, at least, may be hereditary.” 

There was a faint, sharp cry of exceeding misery, and Blanche 
fell senseless to the ground. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

That evening, as twilight shades were gathering over the 
skv, and repose was settling upon the lovely valley of Ruther- 
foi’d — as happy children were returning from their play, and 
the husbandman was preparing to enjoy his evening meal, and 
the sleep which “ to the labouring man is sweet, whether he 
eat little or much” — the young heiress of all that wealth, 
beauty, and prosperity can bestow, lay stretched upon her 
couch, striving to chasten her rebellious heart, and bring every 


168 


THE earl’s daughter. 


gloomy tlioiight, and fruitless wish, into submission to the will 
of her Maker. 

Poor Blanche ! she had not known, till that hour, that it was 
possible to feel more intensely for herself than for others. 
Unselfish, confiding, humble-minded, she had lived for her fel- 
low-creatures, and in their joys and sorrows had found her own. 
But there are griefs which encompass us with a barrier that 
shuts out human sympathy, and forbids us to find relief in the 
thought that our affliction is less than that of many around us. 
‘‘ The heart knoweth its own bitterness and in those seasons 
of trial it is incapable of estimating comparative wretchedness. 

Blanche lay quite still, her hands clasped tightly together, 
and her eyes firmly shut ; occasionally her lips moved, and the 
momentary contraction of the forehead, or a nervous action of 
the fingers, gave indication of some passing thought of misery, 
but the expression of the face was that of calm hopelessness. 
There was no one near her, no one watching her ; the one wish 
she had expressed was for solitude ; solitude with Him “ to 
whom all hearts are open, and from whom no secrets are hid.” 

The door opened slowly, and Lord Rutherford stole gently 
to her side. Blanche just opened her eyes and closed them 
again instantly. He drew near and knelt down beside her, and 
took her clammy hand in his, and she turned her face towards 
him and tried to smile ; but the parched lips quivered, and a 
mist gathei-ed over her soft dark eyes, and then the bitter tears 
flowed silently and fast. 

“ Blanche,” said the earl, “ are you better ?” 

His voice was quite changed ; low and husky. Blanche 
raised herself and put her arm round his neck, and kissed him ; 
but she could not speak. 

“ My poor child,” he said, “ they told me you were asleep.” 

Blanche shook her head, and answered faintly, “ that she had 
been trying to sleep, but it was of no use.” 

“ You must have an opiate,” observed the earl ; “ I shall send 
for one,” and he touched the bell-rope. 

“No opiates for me, dear papa,” said Blanche, stopping 
him ; “ they can do nothing — no one — nobody” — she paused, 
and put her hand to her head, as if to check the swift torturing 
current of thought which was about to rush over her. 

“ Blanche, can you forgive me ?” and the proud earl hid his 
face upon her pillow, and sobbed like a child. 

“ Forgive you, my own papa ; you who have been so kind, 
so good : what can I have to forgive !” And again she kissed 


THE earl’s daughter. 169 

him and fondly smoothed his hair, and whispered how dear he 
was to her ; but the anguish of remorse was too keen for such 
consolation. 

“ Stay, Blanche ! stay,” he exclaimed, putting aside her 
hand, and rising with a sudden effort at self-control ; “ hear me 
patiently, calmly, if you can ; let me tell you all.” 

“ Yes, all, if you please, if you will,” said Blanche, with a 
gentle but sad smile ; “ that is the greatest kindness ; and, 
papa, I will try to bear it.” 

“ And if it should be too much ?” repeated the earl, thought- 
fully. “ They wished me not ; your aunt says it is unwise. 
But, Blanche, neither you nor I can endure suspense.” 

“ No, mdeed ; thank you so much for sparing me. ITien, 
papa, it IS — hereditary ?” Her breath came quick and faint, 
and her glassy eyes rested upon her father’s face with a look 
of intense eagerness, which made him turn shuddering from 
her gaze. 

The earl paused for one instant. “We think not ; we hope 
not; only — 

“ Only you fear,” said Blanche, quite calmly. 

“ No, no,” he exclaimed, “ I do not fear ; others may, but I 
do not. Blanche, you shall hear my story, and be comforted, 
even though it be at the sacrifice of your love for me.” He 
sat down by her, and, without daring to look at her, went on : 
“ Your mother was insane — I would not try to conceal or miti- 
gate the fact — for many months before her death ; and I — I 
am said to have been the cause. Yes, turn from me, and hate 
me,” he exclaimed, as Blanche involuntarily caught away the 
hand which he had taken in his ; “ it is only what I deserve ; 
but bear with what I have to say in my defence. There is no 
hereditary insanity in her family, but there is a peculiarity, — a 
tendency to morbid melancholy, on the female side — not on 
that of your aunt, they were but half sisters. It is this melan- 
choly which I am accused of having aggravated ; it may be, 
truly. But, Blanche, even for this — a grievous sin in the eye 
of man — it is possible that some extenuation may be found in 
the sight of God. Men call me cold and forbidding ; I am so 
now, but I was not so always. Once, Blanche, I was loving, 
tender-hearted, enthusiastic, even as yourself. I was young 
then. I believed the world was made for happiness, and I 
thought that I had found it. Look !” and he drew forth a 
small locket, from which the hair that had been placed in it 
was gone, “ This was a gift from one who was to have been 

8 


170 


THE earl’s daughter. 


my wife. It is a symbol of the heart she offered me — empty, 
valueless. She deceived me ; and, in the madness of my dis- 
appointment, I married another. There was my first offence — 
the offence for which I cannot forgive myself, and for which the 
punishment of years has fallen upon me.” Blanche stretched 
out her hand, and again he took it and pressed it to his lips, 
and continued : “ Your mother had been known to me from 
infancy. We had played, and walked, and sung together, and 
outwardly shared many joys and sorrows ; but we had never 
suited each other. So at least I thought till the hour of my 
great trial ; then, for the first time, I discovered from the extent 
of her compassion that we had sympathies in common. Yet I 
did not really love her ; I knew that I did not. I felt that our 
natures and our tastes were in their foundation totally dis- 
similar. But I was so lonely — so unutterably wretched ; it 
was such a relief to be able to talk of my misery, that, forgetting 
how by the very act -of marriage I must shut out all memory 
of the past, I offered myself, and was accepted. One great 
mistake ! Oh, Blanche ! how it mars all hope of goodness and 
greatness in life. From that hour I was an altered man ; bound 
with an irrevocable chain ; hanng lost the prospect of comfort 
in domestic life, and unable to rouse myself to interest in public 
matters. For your mother, — let me speak of her as she was,” 
he said, gently, as Blanche heaved a sigh ; “ if I seem to blame 
her, remember that I am seeking to excuse myself to her child ; 
your mother was not a person to be blind to the real state of 
my heart. She had a craving for affection, and a keen insight 
into the feelings of others. When she found herself disap- 
pointed, she sank into a torpid, dreary melancholy, the more 
unendurable for us both, because the occasion of it was never 
alluded to by either. Whether by a different line of conduct 
she might at length have won my love, I cannot say, but she 
seemed to have no hope of it herself ; for she shut herself up 
from me. When I brought friends to the castle, she pleaded 
illness, and withdrew from them ; and when I took her into 
society, she gave way to a depression of spirits which awoke 
constant remark.” He paused, watching the effect of his 
words ; but Blanche averted her face. 

“ That is all my complaint of her,” he continued, hurriedly. 
“ She was too good, too high, for me. If she had been more 
earthly we might have been happier. At least, I should not 
have to reproach myself with having been the murderer of an 
angel’s peace.” 


THE earl’s daughter. 


171 


“ Slie was very good, then ?” murmured Blanche. 

“ Good ! ” he replied ; “ I never knew her equal upon earth, 
until — ” and he stooped and imprinted a kiss on Blanche’s 
burning forehead. “ Yes, she was a marvel, a miracle ; but, 
Blanche, even for that very cause we were unhappy. It was a 
goodness which I could not comprehend ; for it was exalted 
above infirmity itself, and yet saw evil in the most natural pur- 
suits of others. A life of entire seclusion from the world was 
her ideal of real excellence, and she tried to carry it out, and 
did so. I do not say she was wrong,” he added, as Blanche 
looked up with a disappointed expression : “ it may have been, 
I believe it was, my own doing. This is not a moment for con- 
cealment: I drove her to it. My principles grieved her, and I 
did not try to soften them ; and then she grew more strict, and 
the evil increased. We led this life for nearly four years,” con- 
tinued the earl ; “ and how wretched it was for us both I can 
never describe. I had friends about me ; but they gave me no 
real comfort ; and your poor mother took such an aversion to 
them, that she made it, at last, a point of duty to avoid them. 
Her only companion was Mrs. Wentworth. I doubted then 
whether the intimacy was wise ; I am sure, now, that it was not. 
Mrs. Wentworth aggravated, instead of soothing, what was 
amiss. She made your mother think worse of me than I de- 
served, and fostered her strict notions till they became absurd. 
But you were born, Blanche ; my own precious child : it seemed 
a new era in my existence ; a bright hope, and interest for the 
future. People said that I was disappointed because you were 
not a boy ; but they did not know me. If I was grave after- 
wards it was not for that reason. Your mother’s spirits for a 
time rallied so much that I began to think she might soon be- 
come more to me than I had ever fancied possible. I tried to 
induce her to join more in society, and proposed that we 
should travel. I sketched out a plan, and chose a party to 
accompany us : she took some pleasure, or at least interest, in 
the idea at first ; but when we came to enter into detail, all our 
former differences revived. Two persons more diametrically 
opposite in character and taste could never have been united ; 
and unfortunately her prejudices were principles, and she would 
never yield them. Yet she loved me, Blanche ; through all, 
she loved me. It is the bitterest thought of all, now that the 
past is irrevocable. Her very wish to travel with me alone, to 
keep me away from those whom she thought likely to encourage 
me in error, arose from love : but it irritated me beyond 


1*72 


THE EARL’r daughter. 


endurance ; and — ” the earl paused, and moved from his seat as 
if thus to escape the pain of further recital. 

Blanche stopped him. She said, in a clear, firm tone, “Papa, 
you will tell me all now ; we shall both be happier.” And like 
a humble child he sat down again, and went on. 

“ Yes, I will tell all. Blanche, you are right ; if we are ever 
to know peace on earth, it must be by openness. Yet you will 
shrink from me, even as I shrink from myself ; for I was cruel 
to her — your mother ! the mother of my only treasure. It was 
on a stormy, blustering day — how well I remember it ! — I had 
been absent all the morning, riding with a party of friends, — 
some of whom she particularly disliked. Perhaps their influ- 
ence was not good, at least it did not work for good on that 
day. I returned home in better spirits than usual, and resolved 
to show myself independent, and insist upon your mother’s 
giving up her prejudices and going with us abroad. I found her 
in her favorite room — the same which you were in yesterday. 
She scarcely ever left it, except to take her meals ; she was sit- 
ting as usual, working, with the Bible open before her. I recol- 
lect she told me that she was glad I had come, and that the 
day had seemed long. We entered into conversation, and from 
her manner, at first, I fancied it a favorable moment for again 
insisting upon my wishes. She listened patiently whilst I urged 
the pleasure it would give me, and reminded her of a wife’s 
duty ; but I saw by the expression of her face, as soon as the 
subject was named, that her resolution was immoveable. If I 
would go alone she would accompany me ; but on no other con- 
dition. The very fact of her silence exasperated me ; I could 
have better borne a torrent of words, than that still, fixed look 
of determination. I upbraided her with inconsistency and 
neglect of the duty she owed me ; and then, for the first time, 
she poured forth her long-hidden griefs. They were true and 
real. I had disappointed her affections, and treated her with 
coldness, and forced upon her society which she abhorred ; but 
I was too proud to bear it : and, in my indignation, I told her 
that it was better we should part. ' The words were no sooner 
uttered than a sudden change passed over her ; she stood before 
me, a silent, colorless statue ; her limbs rigid, her eyes fixed on 
vacancy. I spoke to her, but she took no notice ; and even 
reproach — for I ventured upon it to excite her — had no effect. 
I was more frightened than I chose to acknowledge, but I had 
no doubt that quietness would restore her ; and, ringing for her 
maid, I left her. Mrs. Wentworth met me in the passage. I 


THE earl’s daughter. 


173 


was bewildered and conscience-stricken, but I could not endure 
that she should see any symptoms of humiliation ; and being 
determined to tell my own tale, I stopped her, and related in 
few words what had passed, attributing your poor mother’s 
change of manner to obstinate resolution. ‘ My will,’ I said, 
* was irrevocably fixed ; as I could not make her happy, I was 
certain it was better for both of us to part.’ Mrs. Wentworth 
received the announcement with her usual cold stoicism, and 
merely asking me where she should find your mother, went to 
her room. I joined my friends, for the thought of solitude was 
dreadful to me. I had such horrible misgivings, which I could 
not subdue. After the lapse of about an hour, I sent to inquire 
for your mother ; they brought me word that Mrs. Wentworth 
was with her, and that she wished to remain quiet. Can you 
believe, Blanche, that I was irritated by this ? After all my 
indilFerence and cruelty, I hated the thought of Mrs. Went- 
worth’s being her companion. I fancied how they would talk 
of me, and blame me ; and I had pictured to myself des- 
pair and anger, rather than quietness. Hitherto I had tri- 
umphed in the knowledge of my power over your poor mother’s 
affection ; perhaps, but for that, I should never have tried her 
so far ; but the seclusion and calmness reduced me to nothing. 
I was determined, however, not to betray what was going on ; 
our party was as gay as usual, and we dined out ; and in the 
course of the evening, as the plan for a continental tour was 
again brought under discussion, I was induced to say that I 
would not let anything interfere longer with the scheme, but 
that I would be ready to start in a few days. In my heart, I 
hoped that this determination of purpose would bring your 
mother to reason, and that a reconciliation would be the conse- 
quence. But it was otherwise ordered, Blanche,” and the earl’s 
voice became tremulous and hollow ; “ I never saw her again ; 
never, until eight months afterwards, she lay dressed for her 
coffin, apparently the same colorless image from which I had 
parted.” 

“ Yet it was not all my fault,” continued the earl, more 
calmly ; “ Mrs. Wentw'orth may have acted for the best ; I 
have tried to believe that she did ; but she played a cruel part. 
She found your poor mother stunned at what had passed, and 
thought it right not to run the risk of allowing her to see me ; 
but, instead of telling me of her real state, and so awakening 
my compassion, she sent me messages, which made me think 
your mother cold and obstinate : and soon so exasperated me, 


174 


THE earl’s daughter. 


that the next day I set off for London, and sent her word tliat I 
was upon the point of leaving England. I think Mrs. Went- 
worth saw her error at last; at least she must have been 
convinced that she had miscalculated the amount of your poor 
mother’s strength of mind, for it was gone then ; the little that 
had remained from the time when I first spoke of separation 
fled, when she knew that I had actually left her. She became 
— oh ! Blanche, you must not ask me to tell you what ; I would 
not have you know or think of it.” He rose from his seat and 
paced the room, and Blanche closed her eyes and prayed. “ It 
is not hereditary, you see — it cannot be hereditary,” continued 
the earl, drawing near her again, and speaking rapidly; “you 
were then nearly a year old. Who gave you the notion that it 
might be?” 

“ Only Mrs. Wentworth in those few words,” said Blanche, 
trying to keep under every symptom of agitation. 

“ My evil fate ! ” exclaimed the earl ; “ it is she who has been 
the destroyer of every hope. It must have been a letter 
to her that you told me you had read ; yet I thought I had 
burnt all.” 

“ The letter did not exactly frighten me,” said Blanche ; “ it 
only made me unhappy '; for it was very miserable.” 

“ It must have been written towards the last,” said the earl ; 
“ she was better then, but not happier. Would to God that I 
could think so ! There again I did her grievous wrong ; yet 
not entirely intentionally. The people about her sent me word 
at first that she was ill, but they said little of the circumstances. 
It was Mrs. Wentworth’s great aim to keep all private. I do 
her the justice to believe from good intention — a regard to pub- 
lic opinion, and the feeling-s of the family, and a dread lest my 
return might do harm instead of good. She devoted herself to 
your mother, and scarcely any one else saw her : when at last 
the unhappy fact became more certainly irremediable and more 
generally suspected, Mrs. Wentworth wrote, still, however, 
vaguely, advising me to return for the sake of my own peace 
of mind ; but that was all. I did not understand her allusion, 
and I desired a message from your mother, which she was in no 
state to give. Yet, I will not excuse myself ; I would not know 
what I might have known. I did not learn because I would 
not inquire. But the shock came at last. I was at Venice, just 
returned from wandering in the Tyrol, and planning a further 
tour in the East. Lettere were brought me from England, 
and I opened them carelessly, for I expected nothing more 


THE earl’s daughter. 175 

than I had received for many weeks. She was dying : — her 
reason had returned, but she was dying. The one longing wish 
which haunted her, was to see me and forgive me. Blanche, 
she may have forgiven me in Heaven ; but I was never permitted 
to learn it from her own lips on earth. Two hours before I 
reached Rutherford she died.” 

There was a silence of many moments. It was broken by 
Blanche. “ Papa,” she said, “ you have made me happier ; will 
you not be happier yourself ? ” 

Lord Rutherford did not trust himself to look up ; he had 
leant his head upon her pillow, and she felt the agitated beating 
of his pulse as his hand rested upon hers. 

“ Papa,” she said again, “ may I tell you what I really 
feel ? ” 

He did not answer, and she went on. 

“ I was frightened this morning, for I was selfish ; I had hor- 
rible thoughts about myself, and I was afraid — it was very 
wrong, but I thought there was something more dreadful about 
— about you. I feel so sorry now, and I am not unhappy ; I 
can trust, and I will try not to think of what may be.” 

“ May be — may be,” exclaimed the earl, passionately ; “ I 
will never have those words repeated again.” 

“ Yes ; may be, dear papa,” said Blanche, firmly ; “ for it 
may be the will of God, and then we would neither of us ^ 
murmur.” 

Lord Rutherford rose impatiently ; but Blanche detained him 
with a look of the most earnest entreaty for his assent, and 
added, “We could not think it hard if it was ordered ; could 
we ? ” 

“ Not hard ! ” and the earl smiled scornfully; “ not ’cruel, that 
my innocent child should suffer ! ” 

Blanche sighed heavily ; yet it was only a momentary feeling 
of despair, and again gently and seriously she said, “ I can trust 
and hope, and try to be happy ; and if I wish it, will not you 
do so likewise ? You are so very kind always.” 

The earl’s eyes glistened ; “ I would do all in my power, my 
child,” he said, “ for your sake, and for my own. Oh, Blanche, 
you little know the weary life that has been my punishment 
since those fearful days. If sackcloth and ashes could atone, as 
men fondly deem, for their offences, there should have been no 
greater penitent on eartli than him whom men have called the 
proud Earl of Rutherford. But I have atoned, and I will 
atone, in the only way left. * When kneeling by your mother’s 


lie 


THE EAKL’s daughter. 


coffin, I vowed to redeem the past by the sacrifice of every wish 
of my heart to the happiness of her child ; and that vow, in 
the sight of God, I now repeat to you. Ask what you will, 
Blanche — do what you will — it shall be granted and allowed ; 
only let me feel that the curse which I have brought upon my- 
self is revoked — that the visitation which has once been sent 
upon my house will not return to it in judgment again.” 

Blanche caught her father’s hand ; but he turned away, and 
in a firmer and altered voice entreated her to rest for the 
present, and, if possible, to exert herself so as to appeal at the 
dinner table. “We may understand each other, but there is 
no need for others to understand us,” he said, as he left the 
room; and Blanche, though longing for further conversation, 
dared not ask him to remain. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

A GAY party was assembled on the lawn at Senilhurst. 
Lady Charlton and a few elderly ladies and middle-aged 
gentlemen, chaperoning an assemblage of younger ones. 
Luncheon was just ended ; some guests were departing ; some, 
who were sta}dng in the house, were settling rides and drives 
for the afternoon. Lady Charlton was making herself agTee- 
able, as she always did in her own house. There could not be 
a more easy, unaflfected, kind-hearted manager for every one, — 
quite unequalled, apparently ; for she was good-humoured, 
- sympathizing, and considerate, with just enough strictness and 
particularity to suit sober-minded people ; and just sufficient 
vivacity to enjoy and keep up the mirth of the more thought- 
less. And Senilhurst was precisely the place in which Lady 
Charlton could show herself to advantage. There were no deep 
windows, suggesting retirement and reflection ; no antiquated 
pieces of furniture, with traditional stories attached to them ; 
no haunted chambers or dark melancholy passages. It was a 
bright, smiling, sunshiny house, large and handsome, built on 
the side of a hill facing the south. There was a genial south- 
ern aspect over everything about it. Greenhouse plants 
flourished in the open air ; vines were trained over trellised 
work, and formed green arches and shady walks ; the sloping 
lawn was smooth and soft as velvet ; the clear stream of water 
' reflected every leaf and branch of the large beech and ash trees 


THE earl’s daughter. 


177 


which grew on its banks. At a season when almost every one 
else was sighing at the thought that summer was over, Lady 
Charlton was exhibiting her garden in full beauty. It was a 
triumph she peculiarly enjoyed, for it involved no offensive 
vanity, and Lady Charlton shrank from all personal display. 
It was so pleasant to hear the different remarks made upon the 
charming situation — the splendid colours — the beautiful out- 
lines, couched with the suggestion that nature had done much, 
but art had done still more ; and Lady Charlton felt hei-self so 
unpretending and indifferent, in the midst of such delicate 
homage to her taste, and was so courteous and modest ; in fact, 
she became quite young in her garden. 

“You must be entirely spoilt for other places,” suggested 
Colonel Lorton, a new acquaintance, and a man of large for- 
tune, who was endeavouring to ingratiate himself with Lady 
Charlton for the sake of a rather idle and wilful son. 

“ Every spot h^ its peculiar beauty,” was the careless reply. 
“ Senilhurst is certainly pretty ; but. Colonel Lorton, you are 
not going to leave us this afternoon. The riding party reckoned 
upon your assisting them in exploring the Warham Woods.” 

Colonel Lorton bowed, but regretted that he was under a 
special engagement. If he might be allowed — if it would not 
be an intrusion to leave his son as his representative — he thought, 
indeed he was quite sure, that he would be a most safe guide. 

Lady Charlton felt it necessary to be slightly distant and 
hesitating in her manner of conferring a favour which she had 
determined upon beforehand. “ Of course,” she said, “ every 
one would be glad of such an escort. It was just possible that 
her daughters might be obliged to give up their horses to some 
friends, but that would make no difference to Mr. Lorton — and 
she would immediately inquire what was settled.” And Lady 
Charlton glided away to insist upon Adelaide’s joining the 
W arham expedition, at all events. 

The party set off ; — a pleasant, merry one. Lady Charlton 
watched them as they rode through the park, and congratulated 
herself on her good management. Mr. Lorton might be a little 
silly, a little dissipated ; but he had family and fortune in his 
favour. The intimacy might or might not have results — that 
was not the question ; but it would amuse for the moment, and 
drive away all thought of Mr. Wentworth ; and though Lady 
Charlton could not but own to herself that it was a balance of 
evil, what was to be done ? Adelaide was so giddy and head- 
strong there was no possibility of keeping her out of mischief, 
8 * 


178 


THE earl’s daughter. 


except by skilful management. Principles she did not and 
could not understand, and if it was not a very high-minded, 
delicate species of domestic diplomacy, it was only the way of 
the world ; and people who live in the world must follow the 
maxims and customs of the world. 

Lady Charlton congratulated herself upon her cleverness, and 
went, with a lighter heart, to inquire into the movements of the 
remainder of her visitors. Two riding-horses were still standing 
at a side-entrance ; and she heard Lord Rutherford ask if any 
one had seen Lady Blanche. 

Lady Charlton went up to him :* “ You are not waiting for 
Blanche, are you ? She is gone, I believe. I am nearly sure 
she was one of the W arham party.” 

“ She has changed her mind then very suddenly,” replied 
the earl ; “ an hour since we settled to ride together.” 

“ Oh ! but of course that was all nonsense. When the 
Warham Woods were talked of, you could not expect her to 
keep to a first engagement. And it would not be right — ^you 
must not really be so exacting.” 

“ I wish her only to do as she likes,” replied the earl gravely ; 
“ she told me she preferred riding alone with me.” 

“ But, my dear Rutherford, you don’t surely take literally all 
that the poor child says. She is so devoured by duty, that she 
has not space left for any thought of pleasure ; and therefore 
we must think for her. Just fancy what a very agreeable ride 
she would have missed. Mr. Lorton, Sir Charles Trevanion, 
Mrs. Cuthbert Grey and her very nice daughters, and that first- 
rate Lord Erlsmere ; it would have been cruel to make her leave 
them.” 

“ Dear papa, have I kept you waiting ? I am so sorry,” said 
the gentle voice which was sweeter than the most delicious 
music to Lord Rutherford’s ear. Blanche was standing on the 
steps, dressed in her riding-habit ; her colour was brighter than 
usual, her eyes were lighted up with pleasure, or perhaps some- 
thing better than pleasure — peace — the peace of a mind at rest 
in itself, and having nothing externally to disturb it. It was a 
lovely picture which she made, leaning against a column of the 
'I portico ; the peculiar and very exquisite beauty so lavishly be- 
stowed upon her by nature, enhanced by the brilliant sunshine 
and the colouring of the flowers which filled the entrance-hall ; 
and Lady Charlton \yhispered to the earl, that it was a perfect 
study for an artist. She thought to please him, but he did not 
answer her ; his eye rested upon Blanche for a moment, and a 


THE EAKL’s daughter. 


1V9 


sigh, audible only to Lady Charlton, followed, and without 
saying another word he assisted Blanche to mount, and they 
rode off. 

And Blanche w'as then happy ! with the certainty of her 
mother’s trials and fatal malady, the want of congeniality in her 
father, and the disappointment in her aunt, whose character she 
was now beginning to understand, and whilst living amongst 
worldly people, and hearing worldly maxims, tempted by all 
that earth holds most precious, she could still smile, with the 
holy, innocent smile of her happy childhood, and rejoice in “ the 
peace that passeth understanding.” It may be hard to imagine, 
so few there are who enter upon the scene of life’s great delu- 
sion with a sufficient safeguard against its snares. But if 
Blanche had great temptations to battle with, she had also 
great support, not only in that inward strength which is never 
denied to those who seek it, but also in the outward circum- 
stances which were providentially provided for her. Senil- 
hurst was, indeed, her first experience of the pomps and vani- 
ties of the world ; she found there luxury, flattery, refined dis- 
sipation, disguised selfishness ; but her mind was pre- occupied, 
and in consequence much that was evil passed by unnoticed. 

Blanche had grown very old since that one conversation with 
her father which had revealed her mother’s history. The first 
knowledge obtained in early youth of the great mistakes by 
which the happiness of life may be destroyed, makes us 
strangely thoughtful : it opens a new world, by drawing aside 
the veil which, in childhood, hides from us the hearts of our 
fellow-creatures, and induces us to believe all persons happy 
who have not lessons to learn and teachei*s to obey. Blanche 
saw that her mother had erred ; and, painful as the conviction 
was in some respects, it was not without its accompanying com- 
fort; for if the countess had been reserved and exclusive her 
husband might at least be excused for his w^ant of sympathy. 
There had been faults on both sides ; yet not such as to destroy 
a child’s respect. Blanche felt that, if her mother had been 
spared, it might have been possible to bring about not only 
reconciliation but harmony between her parents. Since that 
blessing was denied her, it remained only to devote herself to 
her father, and make it the object of her life to render religion 
as winning to him now as formerly it had been distasteful. 
The resolution was made calmly and solemnly, after long 
thought and earnest prayer ; for Blanche knew that it was not 
without its dangers. In her desire to make duty agreeable she 


180 


THE earl’s daughter. 


was likely to be betrayed into a sacrifice of principle. It is the 
evil which we constantly see in persons who try to gain the 
favour of the world, and yet to have a conscience clear of 
offence before God. But Blanche’s singleness of purpose saved 
her ; she did not desire to please her father for the sake of 
his affection, precious though it was ; she had one aim, one 
motive, infinitely higher, by which to solve every question of 
casuistry, and it was fortunate for her object that it was so. 

Inconsistency is never winning. The most inveterate oppo- 
nent of religion has no respect for the halter “ between two 
opinions.” Talent, grace, beauty, sweetness of temper, unsel- 
fishness, all are in the end powerless, as means of influence, 
where there is a want of fixedness in principle ; for the world is 
quick and keen in its perceptions, it is particularly gifted with 
what is called common sense; and however it may openly 
flatter and fawn upon its double-minded friends it most surely 
visits them with scorn in secret. Yet there was nothing in 
Blanche’s mode of life at Senilhurst likely to attract remark. 
Lady Charlton saw that she was more cheerful, and attributed 
the improvement to change of scene, and Adelaide found that 
her cousin could enjoy many things which at Rutherford she 
had fancied would have no interest for her. All went on natu- 
rally. If Blanche contrived to occupy herself with Lady Charl- 
ton’s school, it was in such a way that it brought no thought of 
peculiar goodness or self-denial. She said that she liked it, and 
made no mystery of any thing she did there, and her visits 
were taken as a matter of course ; and when she joined in the 
afternoon’s amusements and made herself often the life of the 
party, it did not occur to any one to complain because she had 
absented herself in the early part of the day. So again, when 
she ^ave up some scheme of enjoyment to ride or walk with her 
father, it was impossible to think she had made a sacrifice. 
There was not a shadow of disappointment upon her bright 
face ; it was supposed that she followed her own inclinations, 
and no sympathy was thrown away upon her. 

And yet Blanche was learning to fashion her life, in this new 
world of temptation, upon a strict and most self-denying rule. 
Her hours of devotion were fixed ; her duties marked out day 
by day ; and the one motive of her father’s happiness influenced 
her in the most trifling circumstances. 

Lady Charlton was a strict observer of all the customary 
forms of a religious household, and Blanche was never absent 
from family prayers. Adelaide laughed, and said, “ She was 


THE earl’s daughter. 


181 


dreadfully good but it was not such an extraordinary effort 
as to create much wonder ; and no one knew or thought of 
inquiring how much time Blanche had redeemed from unne- 
cessary sleep to prepare herself, in private, for the day’s trials. 
When so many were going and coming — talking, drawing, 
singing — it was not seen that Blanche followed any order in 
her occupations ; yet the day was carefully divided, and seasons 
for self-examination and retirement were as watchfully, if not 
as methodically, kept as if she had been a member of an order 
set apart from the world : whilst, amidst all, as a duty of reli- 
gion as well as of affection, Blanche was ever striving to make 
her father read with her, talk to her, and interest himself in her 
engagements. The fii’st hour after breakfast was always spent 
with him, looking over his letters and trying to gain some in- 
sight into the business connected with his property. Blanche 
had begun the practice playfully, and seemingly only from 
curiosity ; but, in a very short time, she made herself really 
useful ; and, even when questions were too complicated for her 
opinion to be of consequence. Lord Rutherford found a satisfac- 
tion in talking them over with her. So, in other ways, what- 
ever engaged his attention occupied hers ; and though at first 
it was difficult to believe that this interest ever could be reciprocal, 
Blanche endeavoured to make it so, and in a great measure 
succeeded. 

She always took it for granted that her father cared to know 
what she liked or what she did. She gave her opinions upon 
people and things freely to him in private, and brought out, in 
return, many of the lesser feelings and sympathies which form 
the cement of family life, but which reserved people are apt to 
bury in their own bosoms, and scarcely perhaps to remark even 
in themselves. 

It was scarcely possible for such an intercourse to continue 
day after day without working some effects, visible even to 
Blanche, and giving her hope that their principles might 
eventually accord. 

Lord Rutherford had begun by thinking her a child to be 
loved and fondled, and treated her accordingly; but, as time 
went on, his sentiments towards her insensibly changed. Re- 
spect blended with his affection ; respect for her judgment, 
discrimination of character, and delicacy of feeling ; and some- 
thing approaching to awe at the high, unworldly views which 
she did not hesitate to put forth, though so unobtrusively 
as never to offend his taste, or to jar upon his sense of a 


182 


THE earl’s daughter. 


-S 


parent’s position of superiority. And Lord Rutherford was now 
at ease with Blanche. There was nothing more to reveal. 
The worst, both for himself and for her, had been told ; yet she 
could love him still : and, what was equally essential to his 
happiness, she could still smile without any apparent foreboding 
of evil to come. 

Lord Rutherford little knew the constant check upon the 
thoughts by which this calmness was attained. He only saw 
the result, and w^as satisfied, and he had reason to be so. 

After the first shock of discovering her mother’s insanity was 
past, Blanche’s fears had naturally reverted to herself ; not so 
much with a definable dread, as with a vague horror of the 
future, which was perhaps worse to bear. She was too young 
and inexperienced to understand fully the government of her 
own mind, and fancies and fears oppressed her, which might 
have brought lasting consequences of evil, but for a warning 
from the only friend to whom she ventured to reveal the extent 
of her fears. 

Mrs. Howard could feel for Blanche, the more deeply as 
she had herself, up to that period, been kept in ignorance of the 
nature of the countess’s illness ; but her advice was given with 
a calm decision, which in itself served to strengthen Blanche’s 
failing spirit. ‘‘ It was not,” she said, “ a case for resignation 
simply ; for that, under such circumstances, would imply sub- 
mission to a certain evil ; and the first thing for Blanche to do, 
was to realize to herself, as clearly as possible, that the evil w^as 
not certain. And this must be done, not by taking the opinion 
of others, but by using her own reason.” 

“ Put the question aside as belonging to yourself, if possible, 
my dear child,” wrote Mrs. Howard ; “ and try to look at it as 
if it concerned another. Our trials are often exaggerated to at 
least double their real magnitude, because we have not courage 
to view them in their full extent. Whatever the evil may be 
which presents itself, face it ; see it as well as may be in its true 
light, without any distortions of hope or fear ; then deter- 
mine how it may be avoided or endured. If you do this, you 
will see that when the circumstances are fairly considered, there 
is little to justify uneasiness in those who love you best. If 
there were, do you think I could write as I am now doing ? 
But you will say, and very naturally, that the dread still 
remains ! I believe it must. I do not think it is in human 
nature to escape it ; and it is in this that I feel for you most 
deeply. Yet it may be converted into a blessing. If, when the 


THE earl’s daughter. 


183 


idea of a dreadful possibility presents itself, you can turn 
away from.it as a matter of duty, you will acquire a power of 
self-control, which will be — I cannot say how useful to you in 
other instances. I do most earnestly trust that you will try and 
do this. Pi’ay never read books upon the subject ; and 
when you find yourself fancying what may be, and beginning 
to torture yourself with picturing scenes of misery, remember 
that for you that sort of reverie is as mischievous as real evil 
might be to others. It will be most difficult at first, I know, to 
keep this constant watch over yourself ; but it is not at all 
impossible, and your happiness unquestionably depends upon it. 
I should be much comforted if I thought that you were likely 
to lead a very active, useful life. Constant employment — devo- 
tion, in fact, to any object out of yourself — would be a great 
help to you. And especially, my dear child, I must warn you 
not to try and hide from yourself that there is something which 
you dread. It would be a very vain attempt. Only, when 
the fear comes, as it must and will no doubt, overwhelmingly, 
at times, until you have learnt thoroughly to command yourself, 
carry it where alone it can be soothed. Do not reason or talk, or 
even endeavour to distract your thoughts ; — but pray. If you 
have not words at command, yet the very attitude of kneeling 
will give you comfort. A child in its grief hides its face in its 
mother’s lap, and so may we hide our faces from the worst of 
this world’s sorrows under the shadow of God’s love.” 

The quiet tone of this letter had a great influence upon 
Blanche. She was a little disappointed in it at first, and 
thought it cold ; but, on reading it a second and third time, she 
saw that it only appeared so because Mrs. Howard was not 
really uneasy, Her naturally buoyant spirit revived as the impres- 
sion deepened, and although miserable thoughts would often 
rush upon her mind, and a continued check was required for 
her wandering thoughts, yet she did by degrees succeed in 
keeping down, though not entirely crushing, all sad forebodings. 

In effecting this her life at Senilhurst was certainly as great 
an assistance as even Lady Charlton could have desired ; for it 
was a very new, interesting, amusing life ; with frequent arrivals 
and departures, and never-ending schemes of pleasure, and merry 
dancing and musical evenings ; the pervading gaiety being 
varied by clever discussions upon books, sparkling wit, and 
occasional arguments upon grave and important topics. There 
was nothing in all this openTy to shock Blanche’s principles, for 
Lady Charlton was fastidious in her choice of visitors, and liked 


184 


THE earl’s daughter. 


to have it considered a privilege to be admitted to Senilhurst. 
She contrived also very cleverly to mix up her parties, so as to 
bring together pei*sons who were likely to suit ; and with Lord 
Rutherford and Blanche as the guests, for whom she was most 
interested, she had taken particular care to exclude all perscms 
who had not something of intellect, or refinement, or accom- 
plishment, or, what she valued more than all, goodness, to 
recommend them. 

Yes, Lady Charlton liked goodness extremely — so only that 
it had a name. She could bear with a considerable amount of 
oddity, or shyness, or even rough sincerity, if it was coupled 
with a little respectable authorship, or well-known zeal, or, what 
perhaps was as useful as either, a certain amount of persecution. 
Blanche met with several very excellent and thoroughly simple- 
minded, unworldly persons at Senilhurst ; persons whom she 
could admire heartily, and long to imitate : and they were a 
great safeguard to her, though in a way which her aunt never 
intended when she brought them together. 

Lady Charlton was a managing, scheming person ; really 
very unconsciously : management with her was an instinct. She 
had managed her own marriage to escape from an unhappy 
home, and the marriages of her sisters and of almost all her 
intimate friends. She intended to manage her daughters’ also ; 
and, as a matter of simple duty and kindness, that of her niece. 

True, Blanche was extremely young to think of such a thing ; 
quite a child in many of her tastes ; very ignorant of the ways 
of the world, and not yet regularly introduced into society ; but 
there was no harm in being on the watch. If it would not do 
as yet to fix upon any person to encourage, it might be well to 
take care that she should not be put in the way of any whom 
it might be right to discourage ; and, following out her own 
notions of what might not be wholly undesirable. Lady Charlton 
collected at Senilhurst as many persons as she could, of suffi- 
cient rank and fortune, and respectability of character, to make 
the society pleasant without being dangerous. 

Of one danger, indeed, she never thought — the danger of the 
flattei-ing homage which grace and beauty, when joined to high 
birth and great wealth, can scarcely fail to receive. 

That was no danger in Lady Charlton’s eyes ; rather it was 
the tempting prize, for which every efibrt must be risked. 
Blanche was exposed to it without a thought of caution ; with 
no shield except the simplicity of her own heart and the devo- 
tion of her time and thoughts to other objects. 


THE earl’s daughter. 


185 


But with these she was safe. The pursuits which chiefly 
interested her were such as brought her in contact with persons 
whose superior intellect and high tone of mind raised her 
standard of what men might be ; whilst their age and position 
in life prevented all idea of romance or admiration. Blanche 
felt keenly the difference between such men and the ordinary 
worldly, though refined and accomplished, persons who visited 
at Senilhurst. She saw they could understand and sympathize 
with her, although as she deemed far above her in mind and 
excellence. And such intercourse saved her from the delusion, 
w'hich sometimes fatally misleads young persons, of believing, 
that because the generality of persons are careless in their 
conduct and lax in their principles, therefore no real purity and 
goodness exist, except in cases of special retirement and abstrac- 
tion from ordinary pursuits. 

Blanche was beginning to learn, from her own experience, 
that men can mingle in the common intercourse of society and 
retain their simplicity and devotedness. She saw before her 
true, single-minded, earnest goodness, and no discovery of its 
counterfeit could henceforth shake her faith in it. 

It might be that such a conviction rendered her fastidious 
and indifferent. Some persons said she was so, and blamed 
her. They could not comprehend the quiet, unexcited way in 
which she received the attentions paid her by men whose admi- 
ration was generally considered of great value. One or two 
ladies, more harsh-judging than the rest, declared that she was 
proud ; others, suspicious of evil, became conscious of it, and 
yielding to it, stated their conviction that Blanche was, in her 
heart, as vain and “ flirty ” as any other young lady of her age ; 
but the greater number — men as well as women — yielded to the 
spell of her pure and gentle dignity, and treated her with the 
cautious respect shown to the innocence of a child, which we 
shrink from sullying even by a thoughtless word. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

“ Blanche,” said the earl, as they passed through the park 
gates, and caught sight of the riding-party ascending a hill at 
some little distance. “ I am afraid you have disappointed 
yourself to keep your promise with me. You wanted to go to 
Warham, I know : I wish you would have told me.” 


186 


THE earl’s daughter. 


Blanche laughed. “ And made you uncomfortable and 
myself too, dear papa. I did want to go to Warham, certainly; 
but one day is as good as another, as far as seeing the country 
is concerned ; and I had two reasons for not desiring to be with 
them to-day. One, that I liked the thought of a ride with you ; 
and the other, that I did not much fancy the party.” 

“ What, not Mrs. Cuthbert Grey ! and, as your aunt calls 
him, that first-rate Lord Erlsmere ?” 

“ I like Mrs. Cuthbert Grey very well ; not very much,” said 
Blanche, hesitating. “ I wish one could go through the world 
without judging people; but I have never liked her very much 
since — such a very little thing, I really am ashamed to men- 
tion it.” 

“ Well ! since what ? I can keep a secret,” replied the earl, 
smiling. 

“ Since I heard her talk so strictly against operas to Arch- 
deacon Fanshawe, and found out afterwards that she always 
engages a box for the winter. It gave me a notion of her not 
being true. I don’t think I could ever like a person very much 
who was not true. But 1 was not thinking of Mrs. Cuthbert 
Grey when I said I did not fancy the, party.” 

“ Of Lord Erlsmere, then, perhaps ?” said the earl. 

“ No, nor of Lord Erlsmere. I don’t care about him, except 
that he is rather tiresome to talk to, and always asks me if I 
don’t look forward to my first London season. But, papa, I do 
very much — I hope it is not wrong — I really dislike very much, 
indeed, to go without you or my aunt, when Adelaide and such 
a person as that Mr. Lorton are togetlier. I cannot tell why it 
is, but they make me feel so stiff and so cold ; I am quite 
worried with myself. And it vexes me the more, because 
Adelaide is particularly kind to me, and makes a point of 
arranging that I shall be with her when she is going anywhere. 
Can you understand ?” 

“ Your taste is offended,” replied the earl ; “ that flirting 
manner of Adelaide’s is unlady-like. I cannot imagine how 
your aunt can endure it. I should lock her up if she was my 
child.” 

“ I wish she would,” exclaimed Blanche, and then, laughing 
at her own eagerness, she added, “ I wish she would do 
anything, I mean, to keep Adelaide quiet. And I wish,” she 
continued more gravely, “ that my aunt could win Adelaide’s 
confidence, and persuade her to talk to her as she does to me.” 

“ Is thei’e confidence between you, then ?” exclaimed the 


THE earl’s daughter. 


187 


ear], in a tone of surprise, and slight displeasure. “ I never 
supposed your cousinly intimacy could go quite so far as that.” 

“ I don’t know whether you would call it confidence,” replied 
Blanche ; “ I suppose not, for it is not at all reciprocal ; but 
Adelaide seems to like to say odd things to me, and now and 
then she does say very odd ones ; startling, quite, if I could 
believe them. But she rattles on so fast, one never knows 
whether she is in earnest.” 

“ She is a silly, vain girl, who never says a word worth listen- 
ing to,” exclaimed the earl, impatiently. “ T hope, Blanche, you 
don’t trouble yourself about her.” 

“ I cannot help myself,” replied Blanche. 

“ Oh ! yes, my love, indeed you can. If you were not so 
unnecessarily good-natured, you would by this time have found 
out how to rid yourself of silly people.” 

Blanche put her horse into a canter, and they rode on. The 
thread of the conversation was for tlie moment broken, but the 
earl resumed it. “ I hope you will remember that, my dear 
child, when you go more into the world ; remember, I mean, to 
keep clear of boring, absurd people. It is the only thing I am 
really afraid of for you. Such a person as Adelaide may hang 
about you like a dead weight, if you don’t make an effort to 
shake her off.” 

“ Poor Adelaide !” exclaimed Blanche, “ there are very few 
persons to care for her ; I wish there were more, heartily. But, 
papa, do you know there does not seem such a great difference 
to me between her and a good many other persons I have seen 
here, and whom my aunt calls superior. She only does openly 
what they do quietly.” 

“ So you have discovered that, my love, have you ?” said the 
earl, smiling ; “ but you will learn by-and-bye, that it is a great 
virtue in the world to conceal one’s object dexterously.” 

“ I should be sorry to have any object to conceal,” said 
Blanche. 

“ Heaven forbid you ever should have, my darling ; but it 
would be impossible : for you could never be on a par with the 
managing, manoeuvring people one meets with everywhere ; it 
is not in your nature. You will go on dreaming, Blanche, I 
suspect, and leave it to your aunt and me to fall in love for 
you.” 

Blanche laughed. “ I suppose it is a sort of thing one might 
be very glad to do by proxy,” she said, “ as most people say they 
are so wretched all the time. But, papa,” she added, slightly 


188 


THE earl’s daughter. 


blushing, “ I don’t see that it is quite necessary to fall in love, as 
a great many of the young ladies I meet here seem to fancy.” 

“Not necessary,” said the earl, unable to repress a smile; 
“ only most natural and probable, as you will understand in due 
time.” 

“Then I would rather leave it to due time before I think 
about it,” said Blanche. “ I should not like to believe that I 
could not be quite happy without it ; without being married, I 
mean,” she added quickly ; for the recollection of the one fatal 
instance of a marriage without affection rose as a phantom of 
evil before her. 

“ Yes, leave it, leave it !” exclaimed Lord Rutherford, quickly. 
“ It will come too soon for my happiness, whenever it does come : 
but I would not be selfish.” 

“ It will be sent,” said Blanche gravely ; “ I like to think that, 
because then one feels so satisfied either way.” 

“ What do you mean by sent ?” asked the earl, shortly-. 

“ Ordered ; arranged for one, by Providence,” answered 
Blanche. “ I remember, when I was quite a child, asking Mrs. 
Howard, why every one was not married, and whether she 
thought that I should ever be ; and she said to me, ‘ God knows, 
and He will tell us by-and-by and so I thought it a duty to 
wait till I was told, and I think so now ; and, besides,” she 
added, her voice sinking into an under tone, “ so many other 
things may happen ; one may die.” 

They had just then reached an open common, upon which 
stood a few scattered cottages and a school built by Sir Hugh. 
It was a very inviting place for a quick canter over the soft turf, 
and Blanche was gathering up the reins as a preparation, when 
two women came slowly out of the school-house, carrying 
between them a little boy, about five or six years of age ; he was 
lying apparently senseless in their arms, his head drooping and 
his face deadly pale. Blanche thought she recognised him as 
the son of the lodge-keeper at Senilhurst, a sickly child who had 
often attracted her notice and pity for his ill-health, and in whom 
she was particularly interested, as being the nephew of the blind 
girl at Rutherford. The women stopped to rest, leaning against 
the gate of the school-ground, and water was brought to recover 
the child ; and as Blanche and her father rode close up to them, 
he revived a little ; Lord Rutherford asked a few questions, and 
heard that “ he was faint — that it was a common thing with 
him, for he was very weakly — he would be better soon, no 
doubt, and then he would go home, they did not know how, it 


THE earl’s daughter. 


189 


was some distance ; but he would manage it, of course, for he 
always did.” 

The earl looked at the boy, and said “ Poor little fellow,” and 
would have gone on, but Blanche begged that they might delay, 
just for a few minutes, till the boy was really better. 

Slie should like to dismount, she said, if she might ; and as 
the school could not well be left, she would stay and watch him 
herself, and then they might arrange to have him taken home, 
for it must be bad for him to walk. 

Almost as soon as the words were spoken, and before her 
father could assist her, she had alighted. Lord Rutherford 
acquiesced in the idea ; though, if the suggestion had been made 
by any one but Blanche, he might have laughed at it as ultra- 
benevolence — perhaps he thought it so then in his heart — yet 
there was something that touched his better feelings, in this ready 
sympathy with suffering; this weakness, it might be, which 
could not “ pass on the other side,” and leave a sick child to the 
chance of ordinary care. And it was like Blanche — it was con- 
sistent ; and however far removed he might be from sharing his 
daughter’s principles. Lord Rutherford could still value them for 
this one reason. That which never failed as a guide, which 
directed the least as well as the most important actions of life, 
and gave stability to a disposition so gentle and otherwise 
yielding, was becoming, even in the eye of the man of the world, 
an ingredient of value in the formation of character. 

The schoolmistress and her companion went away, and soon 
afterwards the boy was able to answer Blanche’s questions him- 
self ; but his countenance belied his words, when he said that 
he was really well ; and as he tried to move In staggered, and 
put his hand to his head and complained of pain. It was evi- 
dent that the attack was not a common one. 

“ They ought to send him home at once,” said the earl, with 
some impatience of manner : “ it is folly to talk of his being able 
to walk. There must be a cart, or something, which will take 
him ; but these people are wonderfully indifferent about such 
matters. I shall tell them they must do something with him 
directly.” 

He went into the school-house, and returned almost immedi- 
ately, followed by the mistress, who was speaking eagerly. “Yes, 
certainly, his lordship might depend upon her doing her best. 
Carts were not so easy to be had ; but she would try. No 
doubt something would be managed. It was a great pity his 
lordship and Lady Blanche should have been delayed ; but 


190 


THE earl’s daughter. 


Lady Blanche was so very kind always. Johnnie Foster would 
be quite sorry when he came to himself, to think of how much 
trouble he had been giving.” 

Johnnie Foster seemed perfectly conscious of this fact already, 
for he tried to raise his head, which was laid against Blanche’s 
shoulder, and a smile came over his little pale face, as ho 
thanked her for being kind. 

The earl regarded him with more interest than before. The 
expression of the countenance was singularly sweet and intelli- 
gent, as he fixed his blue eyes upon Blanche, with a mixture of 
shyness, wonder, and pleasure, at the notice she was bestowing 
upon him. “ We will look after him at Senilhurst,” he said, 
addressing Blanche ; “ but we must not wait now, cr you will 
lose your ride completely.” 

Blanche had a request upon her lips ; for she thought the 
ride a very secondary object to the child’s comfort. Yet she 
hesitated in making it, since it was against her desire of con- 
sulting her father’s wishes. 

“ You would rather stay,” he said, reading her inclinations 
quickly. 

“ No, not stay ; for I do not think I can be of much use, as 
he is better ; but if there is any difficulty about sending him 
home I should like to let his mother know, and she might come 
perhaps in Sir Hugh’s spring-cart to fetch him. And then we 
might, if you did not care, go on the other way to Cobham, 
and let the doctor know he is to come and see him. I should 
like to be sure that he was taken care of,” she added, “ and to 
feel one had done all one could.” 

The schoolmistress began to remonstrate against this very 
unnecessary trouble, as she called it, repeating again and again 
that Johnnie would do very well, and they should “ manage 
somehow but Blanche was urgent, when she saw that her 
father did not object to the idea, and, after seeing the child car- 
ried into the house again and laid upon a little sofa in the 
mistress’s parlour, she again mounted her horse to return. 

Cobham was the post town of Senilhurst, a small place, a few 
miles from the railway station. The road was dull, and the 
town dirty and uninteresting ; in general. Lord Rutherford made 
it a point of duty to avoid it ; but this afternoon, although it 
was growing late and chilly before he and Blanche reached it, 
his usual complaints were silenced. Yet he was not amused by 
conversation ; little had been said by either, for nearly half an 
hour, the time which had elapsed from their leaving the lodge- 


THE earl’s daughter. 


191 


gate at Senilhurst. Blanche had seen the mother of the sick 
child there, and advised that he should be sent for immediately, 
and had undertaken to give notice to the doctor at Cobham, and 
then she seemed satisfied, and would have talked as usual to her 
father upon other topics, but she found a difficulty in fixing 
his attention, and presently gave up the endeavour. The medi- 
cal man was not at home. Lord Rutherford wished to give a 
verbal message, but Blanche asked to write it. 

“ It was more certain,” she said, “ and she was afraid the 
child was worse than his mother fancied so a card was left, 
with “ Lady Blanche Evelyn’s compliments,” and once more 
Blanche turned her horse’s head towards Senilhurst. 

“ And your mind is at rest now, Blanche, is it ?” said her 
father, as they rode off. “ Do you mean to go through the 
woi'ld taking as much pains about everything ? You will have 
hard work if you do.” 

“ I should not care for that,” replied Blanche ; “ if I could 
do it as it ought to be done. I should like to think that this 
sort of thing was work.” 

“ It is troublesome and disagreeable enough, at all events,” 
replied the earl. “ Not that it has been disagreeable to me, 
my child ; don’t think that ; but I see in you so often, Blanche, 
an over-tasking of your mind, an exhausting energy which will 
wear you out if you don’t take care ; and it makes me anxious 
about you.” 

Blanche checked her horse, in her surprise, as she exclaimed : 
“Anxious lest I should overwork myself! my dear papaj why 
I have nothing to do all day but to consider my own pleasure.” 

“And your pleasure is to labour for others. I see it, my 
love, when you don’t imagine it. From morning till night 
you give yourself no rest. There is always a thought of duty 
before you.” 

Blanche waited for a few seconds, and then said : “ I wish I 
could believe it was so ; but even supposing it, one must live 
for some purpose, with some aim, to be happy ; and I should 
certainly like to know that I was doing my utmost, if that were 
ever so little. I can’t imagine resting in anything short of the 
utmost.” 

“ It is a strange notion for such a child,” said the earl, 
regarding her with a look in which an intense affection was 
mingled with wonder and respect ; “ but it will scarcely make 
you happy, Blanche, as you suppose ; because your notions of 
the utmost are unattainable.” 


192 


THE 


earl’s daughter. 


“ But I would try ; I would strive,” exclaimed Blanche, her 
face flushing with eagerness ; “ and my rest would be in striv- 
ing. There is so much to be done and to be accountable for ; 
and life may l>e short,” she added quietly. 

“ Yes, it may be,” replied the earl, “ but it may also be long ; 
and there can be no reason to shorten it by over exertion.” 

“ I would not do that,” said Blanche ; “ and if I could see 
any danger of over exertion, I would check myself as a matter 
of duty. But when I look at other people and see how they 
are circumstanced, how they are obliged to work, T feel that it 
would be absurd in me to think over exertion possible. I am 
forced to live such a comfortable life, that the only satisfaction I 
can find in it is, when anything in the shape of a duty 
comes in my way, doing it thoroughly 

Lord Rutherford repeated the word “ thoroughly,” in a tone 
of much thoughtfulness ; it seemed to have aroused a new train 
of ideas. 

“ I think sometimes,” continued Blanche, “ that people must 
be better and happier who are born to work, or at least to be 
useful in some definite way. It seems as if a great responsi- 
bility, and a great difficulty must be taken from them.” 

“ But why work, my dear child ? — why fret yourself about 
such subjects ? — why not take the world as it is given you, and 
amuse yourself as your age points out ?” 

“ Because — ” Blanche began her sentence twice, and paused 
with the effort to repress some rising feeling — “ because one 
should be so sorry if the time came that one were not able ; that 
is, one might die, or — or — it might not — the power might not 
be allowed one ; and if it were so, and then at the last, perhaps 
just before one’s death, one had to look back upon this time 
wasted, it would be so dreadful.” Her voice grew quite composed 
as the sentence concluded ; but the earl read the secret dread 
which prompted the thought, and his face was in an instant con- 
vulsed with an expression almost of agony. Putting spurs to 
his horse, he galloped on, without venturing upon another word 
till they reached Senilhurst. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

“ Blanche, where are you going ? here are letters for you,” 
said Lady Charlton, the following morning, as Blanche came 
into the library, dressed for walking. 


# 


THE earl’s daughter. 


193 


Blanche received her letters, and was going to take them 
away, when her aunt again made the inquiry as to where she 
was going. “ It is too damp, my love, for you to be out. The 
weather is quite changed — ^really wintry. I must have you 
careful of yourself.” 

Blanche was only going to the lodge to inquire for the - little 
boy, and had no intention, she said, of remaining out long. 

“ Oh ! but, my dear, we can send quite easily. Pray don’t 
give yourself the trouble of inquiring, and don’t tire yourself, 
especially to-day. We shall have such a charming importation 
of visitors at dinner ; people you will be sure to like, so don’t 
wear yourself out beforehand.” 

“ Any one I know ?” asked Blanche. 

“ Oh ! yes — know by name quite well and Lady Charlton 
ran over a short list, consisting of a poet and a poet’s wife ; an 
historian, his sister, and a brother-in-law, all delightful people ; 
and to crown the whole, Mr. Johnstone, of Oak^efield ; “it is 
the greatest favour in the world for him to come,” she said, her 
eyes lighted up with excitement. “ He is so immensely busy, 
and so entirely devoted to his parish, and the bishop makes so 
much of him, and gives him such a quantity of work to do, I 
quite despaired of him, though I longed for you to see him, 
Blanche. But I tempted him with the petition that he would 
give an opinion about the restoration of the chancel which you 
heard Sir Hugh talk of. Those good men are so very hard to 
get at, it is quite a triumph when one can seize upon them for 
a day.” 

“And will Mrs. 'Johnstone come too?” inquired Blanche. 
“ Eleanor Wentworth knows her, I think ; I remember hearing 
her say one day that she was a particularly nice person.” 

“ I beheve she is very nice, — extremely quiet and domestic ; 
good she must be to be his wife ; but I don’t know much of 
her ; she seldom leaves home.” 

“ Then Mr. Johnstone will come alone,” said Blanche. 

“ Mrs. Johnstone is to come, if it is not too wet, and to bring 
a friend ; but I must confess she is a very secondary considera- 
tion. He is charming, however. I shall persuade him to stay 
to-morrow, if I possibly can ; but I am afraid he will be obsti- 
nate. But that must be left ; all I wanted to say to you, my 
love, was to give you a warning not to over-fatigue yourself, as 
I should give Ady warning before a ball. So much for 
difference of taste j By the by, have you seen Ady this 
morning ?” 


194 


THE earl’s daughter. 


“ No,” replied Blanclie ; “ she was not down stairs when I 
left; the breakfast-room.” 

“ Shockingly bad habits !” exclaimed Lady Charlton, shaking 
her head. “ I wish you could give her a little of your energy 
and steadiness, Blanche; or, more properly, a great deal.” 
Then assuming an air of confidence, she added, — “ I need not 
say to you, that Ady gives me a great deal of anxiety.” 

Blanche assented % a look of sympathy, for she did not 
know what to answer. 

“ She is very giddy,” continued Lady Charlton, “ and wilful 
too. I was in hopes that taking her from Rutherford might 
have done some good, but I am half afraid. Pray have you 
heard from Miss Wentworth lately ?” 

Blanche held a letter from Eleanor in her hand, and Lady 
Charlton began to excuse herself for having kept her so long 
from reading it ; looking, at the same time, as if she very 
much wished that it should be opened in her presence. 

“ London !” exclaimed Blanche, in surprise, as she broke the 
seal, and examined the date ; “ that must be quite a sudden 
plan.” 

Lady Charlton’s countenance showed some uneasiness. 
Blanche was too much occupied with her letter to notice it ; yet 
she read out passages occasionally, from the consciousness that 
Lady Charlton was standing by, listening and expecting. 
Eleanor, it seemed, was in London, staying with a cousin who 
was about to sail for India, and had insisted upon her paying a 
short farewell visit. 

“ She does not write in good spirits,” said Blanche, comment- 
ing upon the letter as she went on ; “ Rutherford is so dull, she 
says, without me. I was afraid she would miss me ; ^she wants 
so much to know what I am doing.” Here followed an extract 
from the letter, and rather an unfortunate one, for it brought 
Blanche into the middle of a confidential sentence, before she 
exactly knew where she was, and when it was equally impos- 
sible either to go forwards or backwards, without explanation : 
she stopped and coloured ; and then, laughing at her own awk- 
wardness, exclaimed, “ I don’t know why I should be so shy 
with you. Aunt Charlton ? I am sure you will understand. 
Eleanor and I were talking one day at Rutherford, about being 
separated all the winter ; and we said it would be so nice if she 
could come here for a little time : but we both agreed it could 
not be, because we knew you were uncomfortable about Mr. 
Wentworth and Adelaide. Now, Eleanor says she cannot help 


THE earl’s daughter. 


195 


thinking about it, and longing for it, because London is so near, 
and the Jobnstones have asked her to go to them, which would 
bring her into the neighbourhood. Her brother is not with her, 
so that there would be no real objection, if I could manage it. 
But you must not think about it, please,” continued Blanche, 
affectionately. “ I would not worry you on any account, and I 
know the house is full, and it may be very inconvenient ; and 
as to her visit to Mrs. Johnstone, she does not say she is going, 
only that she has been asked. I merely mentioned it that you 
might see there was no mystery. I need not let Eleanor know 
that the idea was ever suggested to you.” 

It was a great effort to Lady Charlton to conceal that the 
visit of any person of the name of Wentworth would be dis- 
agreeable to her ; but she was really extremely fond of Blanche, 
and anxious to make her happy, and if Mr. Wentworth was out 
of the way, there could be no actual objection to Eleanor her- 
self Still she hesitated ; it was opening the door, and no one 
could foresee the consequences. 

“ If I were quite sure about Mr. Wentworth,” she began. 

Blanche interposed with an urgent entreaty that she would 
not allow the subject to trouble her for an instant. She could 
quite understand ; so would Eleanor. And, after all, even if 
the invitation was given, Mrs. Wentworth might not like 
Eleanor to accept it ; and Lady Charlton acquiesced, but not as 
if she was satisfied with the decision ; it seemed unkind, and all 
Blanche’s assurances to the contrary failed to restore her to 
equanimity. 

Poor Blanche heartily repented her imprudence in reading 
the letter aloud too hastily. It was a lesson for the future, but 
the experience was bought dearly. Lady Charlton was, to use 
the common expression, “ put out and there is nothing which 
effects this more surely with people who seek popularity, and 
pique themselves upon good-nature, than being obliged to ap- 
pear ill-natured. She endeavoured to change the subject and 
spoke again of the guests who were expected in the evening ; 
but she showed plainly what was burdening her mind, by saying, 
as she left the room, “ You know, my dear, I could not bear to 
be ungracious ; but it would be a mere compliment to ask Miss 
Wentworth here merely for two or three days, and next week 
we shall really not have a bed to spare.” 

Blanche had nothing more to say, and nothing to do, but to 
try and forget her disappointment as best she might. She left 
the house, intending to go to the Lodge, but the sky was 


196 


THE earl’s daughter. 


clouding over, and before she had gone any distance, large 
drops of rain fell, and she was obliged to return. 

Misfortunes, every one agrees, never come alone, and this 
disturbance of her plans was a great increase to Blanche’s 
annoyance. She was lingering under the portico, trying to 
persuade herself that black clouds and faint glimmerings of 
light, swiftly appearing and vanishing, meant fine weather, when 
Adelaide Charlton came to the hall door, and seeing that Blanche 
had been walking, asked what the weather was likely to be. 
Blanche was a little startled by the question, for she had not 
thought that any one was near, and turned rather quickly to 
answer it. At the same moment Adelaide dropped a letter, 
which she was reading. Blanche stooped to pick it up, but 
Adelaide stepped forward in a great hurry to prevent her. 

“ Thant you ; don’t trouble yourself,” she said, hurriedly, — 
crumpling the letter in her hand, and evidently much dis- 
composed ; “ have you had letters this morning ? — any from 
Mrs. Howard — from Rutherford ? — but I forgot, there is no one 
to write to you there ; that is I suppose, — I imagine — is Miss 
Wentworth at home ?” 

“ No,” replied Blanche, a little surprised at Adelaide’s confused 
manner ; “ she has been on a visit to a cousin, in — ” 

Blanche did not say where, for a little dog, a pet of Mrs. 
Cuthbert Grey’s, just then came running up to her, and jumping 
upon her dress, diverted, for the moment, the current of her 
ideas. 

“ And Miss Wentworth is going to remain — how long did 
you say, in London ?” inquired Adelaide, still lingering, with the 
pretence of watching the weather. 

“ I don’t know, exactly,” replied Blanche, not observing, in 
her simplicity, the knowledge which Adelaide showed of Elea- 
nor’s movements. 

“She wall not have time to come here, I suppose,” said 
Adelaide, carelessly. 

Blanche did perceive something unusual in this remark — ^in 
the tone rather than the words. She looked at Adelaide more 
attentively. There was anxiety in her face ; an anxiety which 
she was tiying to hide by a forced coolness. She bent down to 
caress the dog, and again the letter fell from her hand. Blanche 
did not offer a second time to pick it up ; but, as it lay for an 
instant on the ground, she thought the handwriting was 
Eleanor’s. 

“ It won’t do for excursions to-day,” said Adelaide, advancing 


THE EARL S DAUGHTER. 197 

to the top of the steps ; “ we must make up our minds to amuse 
ourselves as well as we can within doors. It is a happy thing 
we have not very stupid people to entertain : the Cuthbert 
Greys are invaluable on a wet day.” 

“ And there are so many coming to dine and sleep,” ob- 
served Blanche : “ with such a set of geniuses, we ought to be 
very agreeable.” 

“ Geniuses !” exclaimed Adelaide ; “ of all things in a country 
party, I hate geniuses ; people who force one to count the 
letters in every word one utters, lest one should shock them by 
one’s ignorance : and who, after all, are generally the dullest 
persons one ever meets.” 

“ Then you must have goodness instead,” said Blanche, laugh- 
ing. “ Mr. Johnstone is more famous, 1 believe, for his good- 
ness even than for his talents.” 

Adelaide made no reply, but ran down the steps, regardless 
of the rain, and declared that it was certainly going to be fine. 

“ You will be very wet ; do come in, pray, Adelaide, do,” re- 
monstrated Blanche. But Adelaide’s fancy, at that time, was 
to be considered strong. On other occasions she sometimes 
chose to be thought delicate. She stayed just long enough to 
prove that she would have her own way, and then ran back 
into the house, leaving Blanche provoked by her absurdity, and 
rather mystified by her manner. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

A WET day in a country house is undoubtedly a trial ; often 
of the spirits, and always of the mental resources of the party 
assembled. Senilhurst was as pleasant a house, under such 
circumstances, as could well be imagined, for there were books 
for those who chose to employ their minds ; music and draw- 
ings for any who enjoyed and appreciated them ; and billiards 
for idle gentlemen who had no other way of killing time. Mrs 
Cuthbert Grey sat near a window, ostensibly for the benefit 
of the light upon her embroidery frame, — really, that she might 
be able to see all that was going on. The Miss Greys wrote 
letter and worked, and tried to make Lord Erlsmere talk, and 
to persuade Maude to sing. Adelaide was unusually quiet ; it 
was supposed because she was interested in a new novel ; and 


198 


THE earl’s daughter. 


not even the entrance of an occasional refugee from the library 
— tired of prosing with Sir Hugh, and hoping to find relief in 
the society of ladies — induced her to exert herself to be enter- 
taining. Lady Charlton came into the room frequently; 
gossiped a little with Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, and' admired the 
Miss Greys’ work, and wished earnestly that she could find 
time to be as industrious ; and then turned to Lord Erlsmere, 
with some question about the post-office, or the railroads, which 
brought out his accurate information upon all matters of public 
interest. “ But there was no resting-place for her there,” as she 
said herself with a tragicomic shake of the head, which implied 
that she was overpowered with business. “ The poor little new 
schoolmistress had come to make a complaint to Sir Hugh 
about her chimney ; and Mrs. Foster, at the Lodge, wanted 
advice about her boy ; and many other little matters, too 
numerous to be mentioned, were all requiring her presence 
elsewhere. She wished earnestly that she could have a day’s 
quiet — but home and quietness were not synonymous terms” — 
and, with a resigned sigh. Lady Charlton flitted from the room, 
leaving her guests in a very agreeable state of feeling — com- 
pounded of pleasure at the delicate flattery administered to 
themselves — and admiration of the energetic, self-denying, and 
useful life of their hostess. 

“Lady Blanche does not give us much of her society in 
the morning,” said Miss Caroline Grey to Maude, after they had 
been silent for some minutes, and were, as she thought, in 
danger of becoming victims to dulness in consequence. 

“ She spends a great deal of her time with her father, I 
imagine,” observed Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, in a soft voice. “ One 
cannot be surprised at it. Such a sweet young creature as she 
is ! — he must take great delight in forming her character.” 

“ Her character is formed, I should think,” said Lord Erls- 
mere, who, if not a first-rate person in point of interest, was 
certainly so in his love of truth and simplicity. 

Ml'S. Cuthbert Grey sank from rapture into pity. 

“Yes, Lady Blanche’s character, she supposed, might be said 
to be formed ; formed in a peculiar way for so young, — so very 
young a pei'son ; but that would scarcely prevent Lord Ruther- 
. ford from being anxious about her. Poor man ! he had great 
cause for anxiety and Mrs. Cuthbert Grey sighed, and again 
repeated, “ Poor man and concluded with observing, “ that it 
must be a comfort to him, under the circumstances, to see his 
daughter so cheerful, and with such even spirits.” An observ- 


THE earl’s daughter. 


199 


ation which made Lord Erlsmere look up with a perception of 
some secret meaning. 

Mrs. Cuthbert Grey worked very diligently after this, only 
pausing every now and then to inquire how her eldest daughter 
was progressing in her studies ; for Miss Grey had, within the 
last few minutes, laid down her pen, and commenced the 
perusal of a political pamphlet which Lord Erlsmere had been 
heard to recommend strongly. This brought on a discussion, 
deferential on the part of Miss Grey, and animated on that of 
Lord Erlsmere ; in the midst of which something very like a 
groan was heard to escape from Maude — and throwing down 
her book with an ejaculation at its stupidity, she left the room 
apparently in a fit of impatience. 

There was a gleam of hope in the prospect of the weather ; 
a little blue sky in the west, and symptoms of dispersion 
amongst the clouds overhead. Maude stood in the portico, as 
Adelaide had done before — her own countenance very like a 
thunder-cloud — and her voice, as she hummed the first few 
notes of a German song, not very unlike its distant rumbling. 
Yet it was not the thunder-cloud of anger only — sadness and 
weariness were mingled with it; and when, a few minutes 
afterwards, she went to put on a bonnet and shawl, intending 
to take a solitary walk in the colonnade, it was with a listless- 
ness which proved that the walk, in itself, was no object to her. 
Many times she paced up and down — slowly and decidedly — 
stopping every now and then as the sound of wheels caught 
her ear ; but even in this there was the same indifterence and 
languor. A carriage at last entered the park, and was driving 
up to the house ; Maude turned a corner to avoid being seen, 
and then looked — she did not know why, visitoi-s were not of 
any importance to her, and this was a hired carriage — a fly ; — 
probably some people come to stay ; — the Johnstones possibly 
— they were expected before luncheon. Yes, so it was ; — Mr. 
Johnstone, with a pleasant, clever, rather eager face ; and Mrs. 
Johnstone, with a face which none would remark. And there 
was a friend too — a tall, elegant-looking girl, her features were 
not seen at first, she lingered behind Mi*s. Johnstone;- but 
Maude caught a full view of them, as some remark was made 
which induced her to look towards the colonnade, and saw — 
she could not be mistaken — undoubtedly it must be — Eleanor 
Wentworth. Maude’s impulse was a strange one ; — it was less 
surprise than irritation ; it made her rush down the steps from 
the colonnade, and hurry away into the thick shrubbery, and 


200 


THE earl’s daughter. 


from thence into the park ; and away — she scarcely cared 
where — so that she might be certain of solitude. 

The clouds were now gathering together again, and a driving 
mist was settling into rain ; but Maude was at no time as mind- 
ful of weather as her health required, and though she was 
tired with her walk, went on, until a pelting shower convinced 
her how unwise she had been, and induced her to think 
seriously of shelter. The lodge was near, and she hurried 
towards it, and opened the door unceremoniously. The next 
moment she repented of her haste, for she was an intruder. 
She saw it directly, as Blanche rose from a seat by the side of 
the sick boy’s bed, and closing a book from which she had 
been reading to him, said, “ I will come and finish it to-morrow 
if I can ; and you will try and think about it, Johnnie, and be 
patient, wont you ?” 

Her hand was laid upon the little fellow’s burning cheek, 
and she bent over him, and whispered, “ God bless you !” and 
as Maude came forward to speak to the child herself, she per- 
ceived Lord Rutherford also. He was standing behind a pro- 
jecting wall, and gazing so earnestly upon Blanche, that he had 
not noticed Maude. He came into the light as she spoke, and 
laughed at their meeting, and said a few words in- his usual 
tone, but there was deeper thought beneath the outward indif- 
ference, and the glance of his eye was softened as it rested upon 
Blanche into the expression of a woman’s tenderness. 

“We can go now, I think, dear papa,” said Blanche, draw- 
ing near to him. 

He was generally cold, even to her, in the presence of others ; 
but now he put his arm around her and kissed her. They 
stood together by the side of the child’s bed. Maude watched 
them with an indefinable feeling of repose, 

“ We will com( again to-morrow,” said Blanche, appealing 
to her father. 

“ Yes, to-morrow, if we can. He will be better then, we 
hope ; and we must remember what he wants. I will speak 
about it myself.” 

“ Thank you — thank you,” said Blanche ; — “ so very much 
and the child tried to sit up, and thanked him also ; and Lord 
Rutheiford turned hastily away, for he would not for worlds it 
should be seen that a tear glistened in his eye. 

“ This is not weather for you to be out in, Maude,” said 
Blanche, as, the shower being over, they left the cottage toge- 
ther, the earl lingering behind. “ I was half afraid of it myself, 
and I am much stronger than you are.” 


THE earl’s daughter. 


201 


“ It is better at least than the weather within,” replied Maude, 
shortly. “ You seldom sit in the drawing-room in the morning ; 
so you don’t know what it is. But I wonder you ventured so 
far from home when you were expecting Eleanor Wentworth.” 

She said this bitterly ; and, when Blanche turned round in 
extreme surprise, she saw that Maude’s lip was curling with 
pride and anger. 

“ I don’t want to blame you, Blanche,” began Maude again ; 
but Blanche interrupted her with questions as to her meaning. 
Could she be sure that it was Eleanor ? did she know whether 
Lady Charlton was annoyed ? and similar inquiries which were 
a very evident proof that Eleanor’s visit was entirely unexpected. 
Maude’s irritated face was gradually soothed as the conviction 
strengthened, yet her only reply was, “ One can’t doubt you, 
Blanche ; but don’t hurry on in that way. Must you see Miss 
Wentworth immediately?” 

“ Yes ; no ; there is no absolute necessity. Why must I not 
go ?” inquired Blanche. 

“ Simply because I must speak to you first,” answered Maude. 
“ Can I not have a few moments of your precious time ?” she 
added, as Blanche seemed inclined to wait for Lord Rutheiford, 

“ Yes, of course, presently ; but I must not leave him to walk 
home alone and Blanche turned back and put her arm within 
her father’s. They walked on silently. Blanche was too much 
perplexed and annoyed at Eleanor’s unforeseen arrival even to 
mention her name. 

“ I may come to you before dinner, papa ; may I not ?” she 
said as they reached the house, and Lord Rutherford stood, 
apparently expecting her to enter. 

Maude touched her arm impatiently, “If you stay here, 
Blanche, you will be seen. I must have you ; this way” — and 
she would have drawn her into the colonnade. 

Blanche resisted. “ I may come and seal your letters, papa, 
at five o’clock ’ may I not ?” she inquired again. Lord Rutherford 
smiled. Maude, eager as she was, could not help noticing the 
fondness of his manner. 

“ Good-by’e,” said Blanche, lightly. “ I am going with 
Maude now.” 

She followed her cousin through the colonnade, and Lord 
Rutherford stood at the door, and watched them till they had 
turned the angle of the building ; and even when they were 
out of sight, he still lingered, as if unwilling even for those few 
minutes to lose sight of her. 


9 * 


202 


THE earl’s DA-UGHTER. 


“ And now, Blanche, answer me,” exclaimed Maude, when 
they were alone, “ only once, tell me plainly, did you not expect 
Eleanor to-day ?” 

“ I have told you in all but the exact words — why do you ask 
me again ?” 

“ l^cause — the world is a strange world — more strange every 
day — more irritating, aggravating, enraging.” Maude walked 
on so rapidly, that Blanche found it difficult to keep up with her. 

“ Adelaide, and the Cuthbert Greys, and that bore Lord Erls- 
mere, and Eleanor Wentworth — they are all alike ; not one 
better than the other,” continued Maude. “ If they were twenty 
times your friends, Blanche, I must say it.” 

“ But, my dear Maude, pray — if you would only be clear — 
only tell me what you are thinking of. You really make me 
impatient ?” 

“ Then I make you what I am myself,” answered Maude. “ I 
need not do that either,” she added in a lower and graver tone ; 
“ but you are too good for them, Blanche ; and I cannot bear 
to see you deluded. Why do you put faith in Eleanor Went- 
worth ?” 

“ Eleanor ! she is my friend ; we were brought up together : 
whom can I put faith in besides?” inquired Blanche,. in rather 
a frightened tone. 

“ In me,” exclaimed Maude, sarcastically. “ I should not 
treat you as Eleanor Wentworth does.” Then, seeing that 
Blanche was silent from astonishment, she added, “ You did not 
know that she was expected to-day ; but Adelaide did.” ifianche 
remembered the handwriting she had seen, and could not doubt 
the assertion. “ I am not jealous,” continued Maude. “ I don’t 
want to win your affection, or any of that romantic nonsense ; 
so you need not think I have any double meaning.” 

“ Double ! oh, no ! impossible !” interrupted Blanche. 

“Not so impossible as you may think. People don’t tell 
tales of one another, generally, without some meaning. Mine 
is to put you on your guard, and make you see that Eleanor 
Wentworth is too much a friend of Adelaide’s to be a friend of 
yours too.” 

“ But indeed, Maude, you wrong me very much,” exclaimed 
Blanche. “ I know that Eleanor is what some people would 
call a friend of Adelaide’s ; that is, they are glad to see each 
other, and laugh and talk together ; but that sort of thing is 
totally different from her feeling for me. I cannot imagine how 
it should stand in her way.” 


THE earl’s daughter. 


203 


“ Has it not stood in the way ?” inquired Maude, coolly. 
“ Why did not Miss Wentworth tell you she was coming here 
to-day ?” 

“ Because — for a thousand reasons. I will go and ask her 
and she would have hurried away, if Maude had not detained 
her. 

“ Blanche, how long will you be a child, trusting and deceived ? 
I tell you I know Eleanor Wentworth better than you do. She 
is Adelaide’s friend ; and like her — vain, frivolous, — worldlj^ , 
that is the word you will understand.” 

“ No ; that she never was, and never will be,” exclaimed 
Blanche with energy. “ I will not listen to you, Maude ; it is 
unfair to Eleanor. She was my first friend, and I will not hear 
her spoken ill of without giving her the opportunity of defending 
herself. I will ask her for an explanation.” 

“ Ask, ask, if you will,” answered Maude ; “ and make her tell 
you why she keeps up a constant correspondence with Adelaide ; 
and why Adelaide’s letters are never to be seen. Ask her 
whether she is not encouraging her in that utter folly which 
went on at Rutherford ; the very thought of it would make me 
ill, if I did not know that Adelaide can carry on as many flirta- 
tions as there are days in the year, so that there is no real 
danger ; but Miss Wentworth should never have demeaned her- 
self to bear any part in it ; she should ” 

Blanche broke in upon the sentence. “ Maude,” she said 
earnestly, “ you are making me very unhappy ; any facts would 
be better than these vague hints.” 

Maude’s tone of angry sarcasm changed into one of quiet 
seriousness, when she saw that Blanche was really distressed. 
“ I have spoken in this way,” she said, “ because I have no 
actual facts to bring forward ; only convictions of my own, from 
observation. You know as well as I do how Adelaide behaved 
at Rutherford, and how annoyed mamma was. I did not tell 
you, Blanche, half how disgusting the whole afiair was to me. I 
don’t know whether I am more fastidious than the rest of the 
world, but when I see that sort of thing going on it makes me 
hate myself for being one of the same race. Mamma thought 
it would be all over when Adelaide came here, which was more 
than I did ; at least, I was sure that if she did not flirt with Mr. 
Wentworth, she would with some one else ; and so she has done, 
as you may have seen. Adelaide is one of those persons who 
can’t look or speak without flirting ; but I did not know, till a 
few days ago, that she has not given up the old folly. I sus- 


204 


THE earl’s daughter. 


pected it from seeing letters come frequently in Miss Went- 
worth’s handwriting, and I taxed Adelaide with it, and she tried 
to turn off the subject, but she could not deceive me. And now 
suddenly, without any invitation from my mother, they have 
contrived that Miss Wentworth shall come here. What for, I 
can’t pretend to say;, but I should have supposed that pride 
alone might have prevented her from intruding herself where 
she must be aware she is not welcome.” Maude paused ; but 
Blanche, without venturing to reply, walked slowly and thought- 
fully towards the entrance of the house. “ You will not believe 
me, now ?” said Maude, following her. 

Blanche turned round quickly, “ What would you say, if I 
believed accusations against you, before I had given you the 
opportunity of explanation ? ” 

“ You would believe them instantly,” exclaimed Maude ; “ but 
your affection deceives you in this case.” 

“ And have I no affection for you, Maude ? ” 

There was a quivering movement about Maude’s harsh, 
decided mouth. She threw herself upon a bench, and when 
Blanche stooped to kiss her, her cheek was wet with tears. 

“ Dear Maude,” said Blanche kindly, and she sat down by 
her. A proud struggle was visible on Maude’s face. . 

“ Not pity ! ” she exclaimed. “ Save me from pity. After 
all, what does it signify to me, if the world is made up of 
hypocrites! I don’t mean you, Blanche,” she added, laughing 
in spite of herself at poor Blanche’s expression of wonder and 
horror ; “ You don’t belong to the world ; but it is so wearing 
to live day after day with people one despises ; to see no beauty, 
nc goodness anywhere, except — I see it in you ; but it is weak 
goodness — superstition.” 

“Yet I am happy,” said Blanche quickly, “ and you are 
not.” 

A crimson flush dyed Maude’s sallow cheek, and then it 
faded away to a deadly paleness, and she answered, “ If I am 
not happy, it is because I was not born to be deceived.” 

“ Suspicion is deceit,” said Blanche ; “ because it makes us 
believe evil to exist where it does not.” 

“ But it does exist ; one sees it everywhere,” exclaimed Maude ; 
“ only it puts on a mask. Look at that woman Mrs. Cuthbert 
Grey, my mother’s idol. Such a good church woman ! a perfect 
example 1 reads sermons by the hundreds, and buys good little 
books by cartloads. I have heard her talk, until, if I had not 
known her, I could have supposed she was St. Cuthbert, instead 


THE earl’s daughter. 


205 


of Mi*s. Cutbbert ; but I sat in tbe drawing-room this morning, 
and watched ber toadying Lord Elsmere, in hopes of making 
him fall in love with her eldest girl, until I could bear it no 
longer. If I bad bad a scourge I verily believe I should have 
used it.” 

“ One might be tempted to do so, sometimes,” said Blanche, 
smiling, “ if one might begin upon oneself.” 

“ Oneself ! ” and Maude’s face became very sad ; “ but I must 
leave that, and I did not intend to talk of Mrs. Cutbbert Grey, 
only the woman drives me wild. You may as well go 
Blanche ; you won’t be undeceived, so you must follow your 
own course.” 

Blanche did not like to go, Maude’s face was so worn and 
harassed that it grieved her to look at it. “ I should like to 
make you happier, Maude,” she said, still lingering. 

“ Then close my eyes and stop my thoughts,” replied Maude, 
bitterly. “ Thought ! ” and she put her h^and to her forehead, 
as if it ached terribly. “ Oh ! if one could only cease from it 
but for one day.” 

“ Yet it is the great object of education, so people say, to 
make one think,” observed Blanche. 

“ Is it ? I don’t know ; I never was educated. No, never,” 
she repeated, answering her cousin’s look of surprise. “ I was 
left to bad governesses, and never went out of the school-room. 
I learnt just what I chose — what I could teach myself; — history 
and geography sometimes — thought always. I began thinking 
when I was a child — when people supposed I was playing with 
my doll : I thought about the doll, — why it did not speak — 
why it had no mind — how it differed from me, and I have gone 
on thinking ever since : yes, on, and on, and on, until — Blanche, 
have you ever thought till you felt that the next step would be 
insanity? — That is what I have done,” she continued, without 
waiting for an answer ; “ and I have found others who have 
done the same — clever men, men I thought I could reverence. I . 
met with them abroad ; but they were all alike — all disappoint- 
ing in practice and differing in theory. There was no rest ; 
what one believed the others disbelieved.” 

“ Can there ever be rest in the systems and theories of our 
own forming ? ” said Blanche, gently. 

Maude shook her head. “ Ah ! Blanche, there is our differ- 
ence. I cannot walk blindfold. I cannot bow my intellect to 
forms and superstitions.” 

“ I hope I could not either,” replied Blanche ; “ but T am 


206 


THE earl’s daughter. 


afraid we can scarcely understand each other ; we have been 
brought up so differently. I was told what was true, as a child ; 
I was not left to find it out for myself. I was taught to obey, 
too, before I knew the reason why. Now that I am beginning 
to think for myself, I see that what I learnt agrees with the 
Bible, and if I try to follow it, it makes me happy ; I have no 
room, therefore, for doubts.” 

This was said so simply and confidently, that Maude looked 
up in astonishment. “ We do differ, indeed,” she said proudly. 
“ Like you, I am a Christian ; but I must put my own inter- 
pretation upon the Bible. To yield my opinion to the judgment 
of others, I must be a child again.” 

“ Must you ? ” and Blanche waited for a few moments in 
thought, and then added, — “ A grown-up person might pray to 
be taught rightly, and might go to Church regularly, and read 
the Bible, and try to be good as far as he knew, in spite of the 
difficulties, and then, perhaps, they would go away.” 

“ And that is what you would have me do,” said Maude, 
quickly. 

“ Yes, it would be better, I think — safer than argument — 
because — ”. 

“ Go on — go on,” said Maude, impetuously. 

“ Safer,” continued Blanche, more firmly, “ because we can- 
not doubt for ever.”. 

“ No, there will be certainty before long for us all,” said 
Maude, gravely. 

“ And if it should be the certainty of all being true which 
we doubted and thought difficult to understand,” pursued 
Blanche, “ it would be very horrible.” Maude’s brow contracted 
as with pain. 

“ Very horrible! would it not?” repeated Blanche. “If, I 
mean, we had gone on following our own will, because we had 
not all the certainty we wished for.” 

Her voice was very tremulous as she said this ; and Maude 
saw that she turned pale. “ You are ill,” she observed. “ I 
have kept you standing too long.” 

“ No, not ill ; only cold,” replied Blanche ; and she wrapped 
her shawl around her. 

“ And I have kept you from Miss Wentworth,” said Maude, 
a little sarcastically. “ That was wrong in me, too.” 

Blanche tried to smile, but it was not a subject for amuse- 
ment. 

“ You really don’t look at all well,” continued Maude. 


THE earl’s daughter. 


207 


“ You ought not to have gone out this damp day, and I have 
kept you standing and walking till you are tired to death. Do 
go in and rest before you see Miss Wentworth.” 

Blanche repeated that it was- only the cold ; a fire would 
make her quite well ; but Maude was not satisfied, and forget- 
ting her own grievances, hurried her into the house, and 
insisted, with the most persevering and even affectionate atten- 
tion, on seeing that she was resting comfortably in her own 
room, before Eleanor Wentworth went to her. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

No one who had seen the Senilhurst party that evening 
would have discovered any signs of unusual annoyance or 
uncongeniality, unless upon close inspection, and after intimate 
knowledge of the characters of the persons collected together. 

Blanche, indeed, sat in- an easy chair, looking pale and talk- 
ing little ; and Lord Rutherford hovered about her to ward off 
all that might disturb her. But Blanche smiled and seemed 
contented, and her father had evidently no wish except to be i 

near her, and was quite satisfied when he found her pleased in 
listening to Maude’s exquisite singing, and in the intervals when 
there was no music taking a part in a conversation he was 
carrying on with Lady Charlton and Mr. Johnstone, respecting 
a living in his gift which was likely soon to be vacant. 

So far all was well ; and what if Adelaide’s manner was 
absent and Maude’s cross, if Eleanor Wentworth was shy and 
Lady Charlton distant ; these differences were not visible to the 
common eye. There was the same polish of refinement and 
courtesy over all, and the drawing-room at Senilhurst might 
well have been supposed to contain as large an amount of 
comfort and freedom from restraint and care as could be found 
amongst any similar portion of English society. 

Blanche could not suspect evil ; it was not in her nature. 

She was, besides, far from well, and did not feel equal to 
thought. She had not seen Eleanor for nearly half an hour 
after her conversation with Maude ; but, when they did meet, 
the explanation of her sudden arrival was simple enough to put ' 
to fiight all the suspicions which Maude would have raised. 

The visit to Mr. Johnstone had been, Eleanor said, quite unex- 
pected. She had arrived only two days before ; Mr, Johnstone , 


208 


THE earl’s .daughter. 


had insisted upon bringing her to Senilhurst, as Lady Charlton 
had given him a “carte blanche” to introduce any of his 
friends ; and her name had not been mentioned merely to 
cause an amusing surprise to Blanche. Certainly, she allowed 
that the secret had been entrusted to Adelaide, but this was 
because — she did not know why, exactly ; she had been execut- 
ing commissions for Adelaide in London, and was writing to 
her about them, and that put it into her head to name it. She 
quite supposed that Adelaide would have mentioned her being 
in London ; but it was just like her to forget. 

Nothing could be more satisfactory, and Eleanor was so 
pleased, and bright, and affectionate, so enchanted to see 
Blanche again, so full of all the parish news of Rutherford, 
that it would have been impossible to quarrel with her. 
Blanche thought, as she watched her that evening, how superior 
she was to every one else in the room ; graceful, intellectual, 
brilliant, amiable ; even Lady Charlton was obliged to acquiesce 
in the praises that were lavished upon her, although the next 
moment she relapsed into coldness, as unpleasant recollections 
forced themselves upon her. 

“ Frances, my dear,” said Sir Hugh, who sat opposite to 
Blanche, in a gouty chair, trying to believe, and to make other 
persons believe, that he was quite well ; “ Frances, my dear — 
my dear Lady Charlton — Frances Lady Charlton was 
bending her head low, to catch a passing observation of Mr. 
Johnstone’s ; music was going on at the time : did she not, or 
Avould she not hear ? — “ Frances — pshaw ! — Maude, tell your 
mother I want to speak to her.” 

Lady Charlton did hear then ; she smiled sweetly upon Mr. 
Johnstone, and promised to return in an instant. 

“ You wanted to say something to me. Sir Hugh. Shall I 
ring for Pearson ?” 

“ Pearson — folly ! what are you talking of?” 

“ Every one will excuse you,” continued Lady Charlton, 
quite amiably ; “ I was saying to Mr. Johnstone, just now, that 
you were much later to-night than usual.” 

Sir Hugh very nearly knocked away the pillows in his gouty 
chair ; “ I tell you, Frances, I am not going. All I wanted to 
say was,” — his voice sank confidentially, — “ that now Miss 
Wentworth is here, we may as well persuade her to stay. It 
is not worth while for her to go back with Mr. Johnstone.” 

“Very well — ^yes, we will see; to-morrow will do.” Lady 
Charlton was hurrying away as fast as possible. 


THE earl’s daughter. 


209 


“ But listen, Frances, listen,” and Sir Hugh laid a detaining 
hand on her dress ; “ I shall ask her presently ; I think it is 
right. Dr. Wentworth is an old family friend ; Mrs. Wentworth 
too ; very good people, highly respectable.” 

Sir Hugh was gradually working himself into a fit of excite- 
ment, and Lady Charlton was in an agony lest the brilliant 
variations upon the piano should suddenly cease. “ Very well 
— ^yes, we will see,” she repeated again. 

“ I like her,” continued Sir Hugh ; “ she is very handsome, 
dresses well.” Lady Charlton’s fidget increased every moment ; 
in another minute, Thalberg’s variations would infallibly come 
to an end ; “ We will settle it' at once and then 1 shall 2:0 to 
bed.” 

“ But, my dear Sir Hugh, hush — pray be quiet; trust it 
to me.” 

“ It is the right thing to do,” pursued Sir Hugh ; “ it will 
please Blanche — please Lord Rutherford ; it is the sort of thing 
one is bound to do.” 

“ Yes, yes, of course ; we will talk about it — only just — of 
course you will have your own way. I will go and say a few 
words to Mr. Johnstone first.” 

Sir Hugh allowed her to depart ; but she heard him mutter 
to himself — “It’s right, quite right; for ten days or a fort- 
night we shall manage very well. Her brother can come and 
fetch her.” 

Just then Eleanor left the piano, where she had been standing 
to turn over the leaves of Miss Caroline Grey’s music-book. 

Lady Charlton kept Mr. Johnstone’s few words for a better 
opportunity ; and seizing upon Eleanor, carried her oflf to the 
ante-room. 

She must apologise, she said, for being a little unceremonious ; 
but she really was anxious to obtain Miss Wentworth’s co-opera- 
tion in a plan for detaining Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone a day or two 
longer at Senilhurst. She was afraid it might be inconvenient. 
Blanche had told her that Miss Wentworth’s stay in that part of 
the country was to be very short ; and she could not, under the 
circumstances, say anything, however glad she should have been 
to have had the pleasure of a long visit at Senilhurst. No 
doubt Mrs. Wentworth must be very anxious for her daughter’s 
return, and they must look forward to a future occasion — a more 
fortunate one — when engagements on both sides would not be 
so pressing. But there were a few days free now, before the 
house would be full. Could not Miss Wentworth persuade Mr. 


210 


THE earl’s da ugh ter. 


and Mrs. Johnstone to remain with her at Senilhurst, if it were 
only till Saturday — from Wednesday till Saturday ? Surely a 
clergyman might spare two days ; and she would let them 
return quite early on Saturday morning, if it were necessary. 
If Miss Wentworth would join in the request, there could be no 
doubt of its being granted ; and Blanche, and every one, would 
be pleased. “ Poor Blanche ! she is not at all well, I am afraid,” 
concluded Lady Charlton. “ It was very imprudent in her to 
go out to-day. I think, for her sake, you must consent.” 

Eleanor Wentworth was, in general, peculiarly self-possessed ; 
but there was a mixture of pride and awkwardness in the cold 
politeness of her manner, as she thanked Lady Charlton for the 
invitation to herself, but feared it would be difficult to persuade 
Mr. Johnstone to agree to the proposal, since she knew that his 
time was just then particularly occupied. Lady Charlton in- 
stantly grew eager to carry her point. It would be vexatious, 
provoking, in every way disagreeable, to be refused. She must 
have it settled at once : she could not rest till it was. Might she 
only say that Miss Wentworth did not object ? And in answer 
to the acquiescence which followed the question. Lady Charlton 
was so grateful and cordial, that Eleanor found herself compelled 
to reciprocate civilities, and be extremely obliged for an atten- 
tion which was the very least she had a right to expect. 

A short conversation of entreaty with Mr. Johnstone followed, 
and Lady Charlton presently returned to Sir Hugh, pleased and 
placid. She had gained the point he wished. Miss Wentworth 
was going to stay ; how long she did not say, and Sir Hugh 
happily did not ask ; but soothed by the apparent obedience to 
his will, consented to retire for the night. 

Blanche had observed part of the progress of thi? arrange- 
ment, and understood it. She had little to do on that evening 
except to observe, and there was considerable food for thought 
in all she saw, even though much lay concealed from her usual 
unsuspiciousness. Maude’s face was one which particularly 
engaged her attention. It was more than commonly sarcastic. 
She spoke but little to Blanche ; and when she was not called 
upon to sing, devoted herself principally to Lord Erlsmere, whom 
she engaged in a disquisition upon universal suffrage, which kept 
him engrossed for more than half the evening, much to the 
annoyance of Mrs. Cuthbert Grey. Blanche could scarcely help 
smiling at the cleverness with which Maude managed to defeat 
all the mother’s manoeuvres in her daughter’s favor. Yet it left 
a very disagreeable impression upon her mind, unfavourable to 


THE earl’s daughter. 


211 


all parties except Lord Erlsmere. Blanclie did not feel obliged 
to Maude for having withdrawn the veil, and given her an 
insight into what was going on behind the scenes. It was low, 
unlady-like, to say nothing more, and as she looked on, and found 
herself attributing motives, and suspecting double meanings, 
she felt ashamed of herself as if she also was, in a measure, a 
party to the conduct which she disapproved. 

“ I think you had better go to bed, my love,” said the earl, 
coming behind her chair, when the time-piece struck ten o’clock. 
“ You can slip away without being noticed.” 

Blanche prepared to go, for she was very tired. 

Maude, who was standing near the door, stopped her when 
she was leaving the room. “ Are you going, Blanche ? — good 
night.” 

“ Good night,” said Blanche, cheerfully ; “ will you tell Eleanor 
to come to me presently ?” 

“ If you wish it — if I must.” 

“ Why, is there any objection ?” asked Blanche ; “ I shall not 
keep her long.” 

“ Forewarned, forearmed,” said Maude, coldly. 

Blanche looked seriously annoyed, and answered, “ You can- 
not make me suspicious, Maude. After all you said this after- 
noon there was nothing that could not be explained.” 

“ Time will prove,” said Maude, in the same provoking tone. 

Blanche turned away angrily ; but she could not bear to part 
in such a spirit, and the next instant she sjniled, and offered her 
hand to her cousin. 

The hand was retained, and Maude, looking at her anxiously 
and kindly, said, “ You must be better to-morrow.” 

“Wes, I hope so ; I am nearly sure I shall be.” 

“ And you will promise to sleep well.” 

“ Yes, if I can ; the extent of this world’s promises.” 

“ Well, then, good night, once more,” and Maude walked 
away to the piano, and Blanche left the drawing-room. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Blanche was not at all sorry that the evening was over. 
When she sat down alone in her room, she looked and felt 
wearied in mind and body, and was quite startled at the hag- 
gard expression of her own face, as she caught sight of her 


212 


THE earl’s daughter. 


features in a glass. Blness might be one reason for her being 
depressed ; there was nothing else particularly to cause it, but 
she felt very solitary, all the more so, perhaps, because there were 
so many about her. Yet she ought not to be solitary when 
Eleanor was in the house ; a year before she would have said 
that she needed no other companionship. And why should she 
now ? What change had come over her ? Her mind travelled 
back to the days that were past : long past they seemed, but 
that was a delusion ; it was but a short time ; yet the grey, 
weather-stained walls of the old manor-house, the green walks, 
the trim holly hedge, the antique dial and all the associations 
connected with them, were as the clear, yet faded visions of a 
distant land ; and the voice of the friend who had loved her 
from infancy, though sweet to her recollection, was very faint, as 
the dying notes of music which we shall never hear again. It 
is hard to realize the death of our own life ; we never do so 
whilst our childish associations are unbroken. The thought of 
it came to Blanche’s mind with awe and sadness, as she tried to 
recall the forms of those by-gone days from which the spirit 
had departed to bear an undying record before God. Happy 
they had been, very happy and blest — more blest than the pre- 
sent — more innocent and guileless ; and they could never in 
any way return ; years could never restore ignorance, they could 
never make to her unknown what once was known ; they could 
never bring back confidence where it had been disappointed. 
Years — they stretched far, far out, interminably it seemed ; and 
they must be met, endured, with all their possible trials, with 
the risk, the possibility of — Blanche shuddered, her heart grew 
faint ; it was a real, physical faintness, for the next instant a 
sharp pain shot through her frame, and she leant back in her 
' chair, and gasped for breath. ' 

Eleanor Wentworth knocked at the door. Blanche said, 
“ come in,” as loudly as she could. The pain had been only 
momentary, and she did not like to think of it. 

“ Not undressed, Blanche,” said Eleanor, as she came up to 
her : “ that is very naughty.” 

“ I sat by the fire, thinking,” replied Blanche, “ and expect- 
ing you. Why did you not come before ?” 

“ I did not miss you at first when you went ; and your cousin 
Maude only told me to come to you a few minutes ago,” replied 
Eleanor. 

“ Maude is very strange,” said Blanche, thoughtfully. “ But 
tell me, Eleanor ; I understood a great deal that went on 


THE earl’s daughter. 


• 213 


down stairs, thongli I only heard half. How long are you to 
stay ?” 

“ Two days,” answered Eleanor, shortly. 

“Two days only ?” 

“ Lady Charlton has not given me the opportunity of staying 
longer.” 

“ It is vexatious,” said Blanche, “ very.” 

“ Yes, and to find you not well, besides ; and to have seen so 
little of you all the evening. However, one must bear it, and 
be thankful, I suppose.” 

Blanche was chilled, for Eleanor’s tone was petulant. “ We 
shall be able to talk to-morrow,” she said, soothingly ; “ and, 
Eleanor, you must not be hard upon my aunt ; she has reasons, 
you know, for not being quite as cordial as one could wish.” 

Eleanor’s cheek flushed with deep crimson, and she exclaimed, 
“ Of course I know. She does not consider the son of a country 
clergyman a fit connection for her family. Yet I could tell her 
that the Wentworths are an older race than any other in the 
county.” 

“ It is not the question of family ; indeed you must not think 
that,” said Blanche, earnestly. “ If your brother — .” She 
stopped, for the observation might have been an awkward one. 

“ I understand what you would say,” replied Eleanor, with an 
air of great candour. “ If my brother was a dashing man of 
fashion, with his four or five thousand a year ; or even if he had 
the promise of a good living, with a deanery or bishopric in 
perspective, Lady Charlton would not let the question of family 
intefere ; but being as he is, about to take orders, and live a 
quiet, serious life, as a curate in a country village, she does not 
deem it a suitable prospect. I do not blame her ; I do not 
know that any one could ; only, Adelaide may go farther and 
fare worse.” 

Blanche was more perplexed than before what to say. The 
tone Eleanor was adopting was quite new to her. She seemed 
to think the affair serious. 

“ You do Charles injustice yourself,” continued Eleanor. 
“ When you saw him flirting — for he did flirt, I grant, at 
Rutherford — you put him down as a silly, vain young man : he 
is very far from that : or, at least, if he is vain, he has great 
counterbalancing qualities. All that frippery and folly will go 
when he is ordained.” 

Blanche was silent. 

“ What are you thinking of ?” asked Eleanor. Her voice was 


214 


THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 


nervously eager, and she repeated again, — “ What are you 
thinking of ? I must know.” 

“ Should it not go before he is< ordained asked Blanche, 
quietly. 

Eleanor drew back for an instant ; then she answered, hur- 
riedly, — “ Yes, yes, certainly ; before — at the time when he is 
ordained. He will be quite a different person by-and-by, you 
will see.” 

“ But will by-and-by do ?” pursued Blanche. “ Can it ever 
be right to take such a responsibility without being very 
devoted — very good, beforehand — a long time beforehand ?” she 
added, becoming bolder. 

Eleanor’s face showed much more vexation than the occasion 
seemed to warrant ; but she only replied, — “Well! well! we 
won’t talk of it now, Blanche. You are prejudiced, I am 
afraid ; so is Lady Charlton. We won’t spoil our few houre 
together by discussion.” 

Blanche looked sorry, and observed, it was very foolish of her 
to say such things ; it must seem unkind, when Eleanor was so 
fond of her brother ; but it was hard to keep back her opinions, 
where she had been accustomed to tell them so openly. 

Eleanor was standing near the fire. She bent down and 
kissed Blanche, and fixed her eyes upon her intently, but without 
speaking. 

“ I may tell you all, I think ; may I not ?” said Blanche, 
answering the look. 

There was another pause. Eleanor’s eyes glistened ; sh« 
seemed lost in thought. 

“ May I not ?” repeated Blanche. 

“ Yes, all ; undoubtedly. You are very tired ; shall I ring 
for your maid ?” 

“ In a minute ; only I am so afraid I have pained you.” 

Eleanor answered by another kiss — warm, aflfectionate as in 
the years of their happy intercourse at St. Ebbe’s. 

The bell was rung, Eleanor departed, and Blanche was left, 
to think over what had been said, and to ponder upon the cause 
of that sharp, warning, momentary agony ; — what did it mean ? 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

Eleanor’s step, as she moved along the gallery from 


THE earl’s daughter. 


216 


Blanche’s room, was stealthy and quick ; but she paused at the 
top of the staircase to listen to what wiis going on below. All 
the guests not staying in the house had taken their leave ; and 
now there were parting good-nights and cheerful last words said 
as the rest of the party broke up. She heard Mr. Johnstone 
and Lady Charlton speaking of the plans for the next day. 
That was a satisfaction, as it showed that he had not changed 
his mind about remaining at Senilhurst. Eleanor had a half 
inclination to go down again and inquire of Mrs. Johnstone, to 
be quite sure of the fact ; but the sight of Maude coming up 
the stairs had a sudden effect upon her intentions, and with the 
same quick and quiet step as before, she went on, reached the 
further end of the gallery, and, opening a door which led to 
the apartments in the east wing, found her way amidst passages 
and turnings, to a small sitting-room, out of which two doors 
opened. A hasty double knock at one of these was answered 
by Adelaide Charlton, who exclaimed, “ Come at last, 
Eleanor !” 

“ Hush ! hush !” and Eleanor put her finger to her lips. 
“ Maude will be here in one instant ; let me in.” 

Adelaide threw open the door, which Eleanor took care to 
bolt again, and then Adelaide, motioning to Eleanor to sit 
down by the fire, said, “Well, what success ? what does Blanche 
think ?” 

“ My dear Adelaide ! how wild you are. Blanche, of course, 
thinks nothing, and knows nothing.” 

“ What, have you not asked her ?” 

“ No, not this evening. I only sounded her a little.” 

“ Sound !” repeated Adelaide, in a tone of vexation. “ But, 
what is there to hinder you from speaking out at once ? Why 
can’t you say. Your father will have a living in his gift soon, and 
I wish he would promise it to my brother ?” 

“ Oh ! Adelaide ! can’t you understand ? — to ask a favour ! 
— to put oneself under an obligation ! — there is nothing more 
difficult.” 

“ But not between friends — persons like you and Blanche, 
who were brought up together.” 

Adelaide threw herself back in an easy chair, and angrily 
pushing aside a footstool, continued, “ I see how it is ; we are 
resting upon a broken reed. I told Charles it would be so 
long ago.” 

“ You may say what you will, Adelaide,” replied Eleanor, 
with some dignity of manner. “ If you will not trust me, you 


216 


THE earl’s DA.UGHTER. 


must take your own way ; but one thing I am quite sure of 
that mine is the only right and wise one.” 

“ I don’t see why he is to be tied down to that odious pro- 
fession,” observed Adelaide, petulantly. 

“ Merely because his whole education has been a preparation 
for it,” said Eleanor ; “ and that it would break my mother’s 
heart if he were to give it up.” 

“ But he does not like it ; he is not fit for it,” said Adelaide. 

“ Yes, begging your pardon, he does like it, and he is fit for 
it, when you do not influence him against it.” 

“ A thousand pities he ever knew me then,” said Adelaide, 
sharply. 

Eleanor did not contradict her. She only answered, “ It is 
too late to think of that now, when you are engaged.” 

“ Who brought on the engagement ?” asked Adelaide, 
satirically. 

“ Do you repent it ?” said Eleanor. 

Repent ! oh dear, no ! not in the least ! WEat a strange 
notion ! do you ?” 

Eleanor was silent. 

“ Do you ?” again repeated Adelaide ; and Eleanor was 
compelled to answer. 

“ I should not, if you would be what you have promised.” 

“ What I have promised to be when I am married,” re- 
peated Adelaide. “ It will be time enough to think of that 
by-and-by.” 

“ It would be better to begin at once.” 

“We wont sermonise,” exclaimed Adelaide, impatiently. 
“ You know I have an insurmountable objection to sermons. 
If any harm comes of our engagement, Eleanor, you will have 
no one to thank for it but yourself. When Charles and I were 
at Rutherford, we had no more idea of anything serious, than 
we have now of ' travelling to the moon. It was entirely 
through correspondence, and messages and that sort of thing, 
that the affair came to a point. I declare I should have 
forgotten him by this time, if you had not so constantly reminded 
me of him.” 

“ I was obliged to repeat what he said,” replied Eleanor ; 
conscience reproaching her for untruth as she uttered the 
words. 

“ Well ! obliged or not obliged, you managed to make me 
think of him, and this is the consequence ; and, having led us 
into the scrape, all you can possibly do now is to help us out 


THE earl’s daughter. 


217 


of it. The idea of going to mamma with the news that I am 
engaged to a man, without any prospect but a country curacy, 
is an absurdity ; I wont do it.” 

“ But if you must ?” 

“ There is no must ; I don’t acknowledge any.” 

“ And the alternative will be — what ?” 

Adelaide laughed heartily. “ I am not going to let you into 
all our secrets, Eleanor ; you know too much already. Trust 
us, if you will not manage matters for us, we shall manage them 
somehow for ourselves ; and soon too. I have no notion of 
hanging on from week to week, in this way. It destroys all 
the pleasure of one’s present life, without giving one a prospect 
of anything better.” 

“Charles is obliged to you,” said Eleanor, gravely. “I 
should have thought that, being certain of his affection, “you 
might have been well contented to wait till he can come for- 
ward openly.” 

“ His auction ! yes, of course, I am certain of that, and 
satisfied. But it is a little, — ^however, I won’t frighten your 
propriety ; only perhaps you can understand that now and 
then it is just a wee bit uncomfortable to go about the 
world with one’s hands and feet tied; and not to be able 
to mention it. One moves awkwardly.” 

“ There may be something in that,” said Eleanor, thought- 
fully. “ But what is still more important, I am sure it 
is not quite right. Your mother and my mother ought 
to know it. I, for one, should be miserable at the conceal- 
ment, if there were not such good reasons for it at present, 
and if — ” 

“ Well — what ? What salve have you found for that very 
fidgety conscience of yours ?” 

“Very sufficient salve,” replied Eleanor. “You and Charles 
settled your aflfairs yourselves. I was no party to the actual 
engagement.” 

“ That is,” exclaimed Adelaide, her eyes sparkling with irrita- 
tion, “ you showed us the road, and led us to the point, and 
gave us a little push, and then hurried away, that you might 
be able to say you did not see. Oh ! Eleanor.” 

Eleanor blushed ; yet she could not rest without a further 
effort at self-vindication. 

“ You are exaggerating,” she said, “ I did not know what 
was going to happen. I scarcely ever suspected it. When 
Charles told me you were engaged, I was utterly amazed. 

10 


218 


THE earl’s daughter. 


“ Then what did you think we were about ?” inquired Ade- 
laide. “ What pretty game were we playing ?” 

Eleanor was too much ashamed to reply. How could she 
own that she had calculated upon Mr. Wentworth’s unsteadi- 
ness of disposition, and Adelaide’s habit of flirting, and suffered 
herself to encourage them in folly, whilst deluding herself by 
thinking it would come to nothing ? And all this partly from 
a weak wish to please her brother ; partly from finding a silly 
pleasure in watching an affair of the kind for the first time, and 
feeling herself a person of importance ; and partly from the 
secret desire to keep up an acquaintance which promised a 
good deal of amusement, and possibly an introduction, by-and- 
by, to gayer society than she could meet with at Rutherford. 

It was very unlike the conduct to be expected from Mrs. 
Howard’s pupil ; but, perhaps, the person whom it would least 
have surprised, was Mrs. Howard herself. Eleanor was not so 
very diflferent now from what she had been in former days. 
Circumstances had brought out the weak points of her charac- 
ter, and rendered their consequences more important ; but the 
original faults were the same ; — vanity and love of excitement — 
known and acknowledged, but never thoroughly struggled 
against. 

“ I don’t like this new mood of yours,” said Adelaide, after 
a pause, finding that Eleanor sat abstractedly gazing on the 
fire. “ I had looked forward to your coming as the end of all 
my difficulties. I thought you would go at once to Blanche, 
— entreat her compassion; and then, when we had engaged 
Lord Rutherford’s interest, that the thing would have been 
known and settled.” 

Eleanor could not help smiling in spite of herself. “ Ade- 
laide I when will you learn common sense ? How can you 
imagine it possible to settle a business like this in a minute ? 
Even supposing I could bring Blanche over to your side, and 
supposing Lord Rutherford were to promise Charles twenty 
thousand a year, instead of a living worth twelve hundred, — 
how can you suppose that Lady Charlton would be brought 
round in such a moment ?” 

“ Oh ! there are two strings to that bow,” replied Adelaide. 
“ If mamma will not consent, papa will ; that I am quite sure 
of. Pearson told my maid, the other day, that he was wonder- 
fully fond of Charles, and meant to have him asked here. I 
don’t want that, though, just yet.” 

“ No, indeed and Eleanor inwardly trembled at the storms 
which might arise from so imprudent a step. 


THE earl’s daughter. 


219 


“ I don’t see why you should say, No, indeed ! in that tone,” 
exclaimed Adelaide. “ I don’t want it to he just yet ; but I 
don’t know why you should be so afraid. We are not quite 
such babies as not to understand keeping our own counsel.” 

“ There are eyes about you,” said Eleanor. 

“ Mamma ! yes, she is a regular Argus.” 

“ And your sister.” 

“ That is to be considered, certainly ; I am awfully afraid of 
Maude.” 

“ So am I,” replied Eleanor. 

“ She is a person to be afraid of; tough, leathery,” said Ade- 
laide. “ She never did a foolish thing from the time she was 
born. And she can look through one when she chooses it. I 
declare, if it was not for her German metaphysics, I could not 
live in the house with her. Happily, they make her so puzzle- 
headed that she only sees one-half of what is going on.” 

There was a loud angry knock at the door. Adelaide 
started, and exclaimed, “ That is her knock.” 

Eleanor turned pale. “ Are you sure she does not see more 
than one-half already ?” she asked in a whisper. 

Adelaide made no answer. Eleanor took up her candle to 
go. “ Adelaide and I have been gossiping,” she said, as an 
explanation to Maude, when the door was opened. “ It is very 
foolish, I own.” 

Maude took no notice. “ You have some books of mine, 
which I want, Adelaide,” she said. 

Eleanor felt herself growing nervous; and, to hide her 
confusion, would have pretended to search for the volumes 
wanted ; but Maude prevented her. There was no occasion for 
Miss Wentworth to trouble herself, she said. Adelaide knew 
quite well where the books were ; and, as she spoke, she placed 
herself near the doorway, in such a position that Eleanor was 
compelled to confront her. Her glance was proud and search- 
ing ; and Eleanor shrank from it. 

“ Good night ! Adelaide,” she said, in as light a tone as she 
could assume. She would have given her hand to Maude, but 
it was not taken. 

“ Good night. Miss Wentworth,” was repeated, haughtily ; 
and Eleanor went to her room, humbled and unhappy. 


220 


THE earl’s daughter. 


CHAPTER XXXVL 

It was about a week from that time, — the weather was cold 
and bleak, even for the autumn, and as the rough blasts howled 
round the old parsonage at Rutherford, and the rain pelted 
against the latticed windows. Dr. Wentworth drew his chair 
near to the fire, and congratulated himself that his work for 
tlie day was over — that there was no case of illness in the 
parish requiring his attention, and that it was not a night for 
the evening school, or for any other duty which would expose 
himself or his parishioners to such inclement weather. 

“ I wish Charles was equally safe from it,” said Mrs. Went- 
worth, who sat at work opposite to her husband. She was 
cutting out baby clothes, and from the full attention which she 
bestowed upon the occupation, it might have been supposed 
that she esteemed it the most important duty of her life. 

Dr. Wentworth looked up in answer to the remark, and said, 
in an apologetic tone, that he had not forgotten Charles, but 
that young men thought nothing of weather when there was a 
dinner party in question. 

“And I should hope not when many other things are in 
question,” replied Mrs. Wentworth ; “ but that does not pre- 
vent one, I am afraid, from thinking of it for them. However, 
Charles must accustom himself to brave a great many worse 
trials than weather; so it may be as well for him* to begin at 
once.” 

• She relapsed again into silence, and Dr. Wentworth read to 
himself. Nearly half-an-hoiir went by in this way; Mrs. Went- 
worth worked unremittingly. There was something almost 
painful in the energy with which she cut, and folded, and 
squared ; placing piece after piece in a basket that stood on the 
table by her side. To look at her face, with its expression of 
intellect and resolution, one might have said that it was a waste 
of power to throw so much vigour into a mere mechanical 
employment. 

“ A quarter to ten,” observed Dr. Wentworth, looking at his 
watch ; — “ time for the servants to be called in, my dear.” 

“ Yes, if you please ; will you ring the bell ?” and with the 
same quiet determination of manner, Mrs. Wentworth moved 
away her work to another part of the room — placed a Bible on 
the table — arranged the chairs for the servants, and prepared to 
join in the nightly family service. It was very simple and 


THE earl’s daughter. 


221 


short ; a few verses from the New Testament, with a few words 
of comment, and prayer. Yet there was something very touch- 
ing and impressive in the earnest exhortation which besought 
all who were present to cast their care upon One who cared for 
them — whether it were care for others or themselves — for the 
needs of the body, or the claims of the imperishable soul. Mrs. 
Wentworth sat with her hands placed one upon the other, and 
her eyes bent upon the floor; not a muscle of her features 
moved, and her voice, as she joined in the supplications which 
followed, was clear and firm, until the petition for the absent and 
the loved. Then, for a moment it sank ; but no one noticed the 
change, for none saw the secrets of the mother’s heart, save He 
who had formed it. 

“Do you mean to sit up for Charles, my dear?” said Di. 
Wentworth when the service was concluded. 

“ I had thought of doing so ; he promised to be home 
early ?” 

“ But you will do him no good, and will only tire yourself ; 
you had much better not.” 

“ I have some work to finish,” replied Mrs. Wentworth, pre- 
paring to resume her former employment. 

Dr. Wentworth saw it was useless to remonstrate. He said, 
half playfully and half in a tone of vexation, “ Well ! you must 
have your own way ; — wilful women always do. Only don’t 
ask me to sit up with you.” 

Mrs. Wentworth smiled, and disowned all intention of inflict- 
ing such a penance upon him, and Dr. Wentworth went away. 

The room looked dreary then. It is strange how much there 
is in association; — Ijow different a solitary hour is before a 
household has been broken up for the night and afterwards. 
Though the fire may blaze just as cheerfully, and the lamp give 
the same bright light, a sense of loneliness, almost of awe, insen- 
sibly creeps over one. Mrs. Wentworth might have experienced 
something of the kind, for she soon gave up her work and tried 
to read, and after a time, putting aside the book, walked about 
the room, and listened for the trampling of a horse, — though 
she knew her son was not likely to return for the next hour. 

That hour and another passed, and he did not come. Mrs. 
Wentworth was not at all anxious ; she was not a nervous per- 
son, and she did not think that any accident had happened ; but 
she did think that Charles had been induced to stay longer than 
he had purposed. It was a slight fault, if it could be called one ; 
but she was not in a mood to be lenient to slight faults. She 


222 


THE earl’s daughter. 


grew more and more restless — more and more visibly annoyed ; 
and when, at length, the bell rang, and her son appeared, she 
greeted him with, “ You are an hour and a half beyond the 
time you mentioned, Charles ? Has anything happened ?” 

“ Nothing — nothing at all,” — was the answer. “ Am I so 
late? — I did not know it.” He took out his watch — “Not 
much more than an hour — I really could not help it.” 

Mrs. Wentworth did not directly reply, but as she lighted her 
caudle to go to bed, she said : — “ It is a great pity, Charles, that 
you cannot learn to be exact. If you had told me you should 
not be home till twelve, I should have known what to expect.” 

Mr. Wentworth looked provoked. “ My dear mother, I really 
beg your pardon, but — ^you must excuse me, — I did not ask you 
to sit up.” He had no sooner said the words than he was vexed 
with himself for it. He saw that she was offended. 

“ Good night, Charles. I will take care not to give myself 
unnecessary trouble again.” 

“ My dear mother !” and he went up to her and kissed her. 

“ I cannot bear this. It was very silly ; very wrong, only — ” 

“ Only !” and Mrs. Wentworth gave way for an instant to her ^ 
hitherto repressed feelings — “ Only, Charles, you were tempted, 
and you yielded.” 

“ It is not such a very great offence,” replied Charles, relaps- 
ing again into his former tone of indifference. “ It was impos- 
sible to get away sooner ; as it was, I was one of the first to go ; 
and really it was no case of temptation. The party was im- 
mensely stupid ; not a single person there whom I cared to 
meet, except young Johnstone.” 

“ Was he there?” exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth eagerly. “Did 
he say anything about Eleanor ?” 

“ Yes ; he told me what I knew — that she had been staying 

with his father and mother ; and that she was with ; she 

was at Senilhurst now.” There was a hesitation in Mr. Went- 
worth’s manner, which however did not occasion any remark. 

“ I was in hopes Eleanor might have left Senilhurst by this 
time,” said Mrs. Wentworth. “ It is vexatious her being there 
at all ; but I suppose she could not help it ; and now the stay- 
ing for this party is not what I like.” 

“ Eleanor is to go back again to the Johnstones,” said Mr. 
Wentworth ; “ and it struck me — I must go to London before 
long — I might just as well bring her home.” 

“ London ! my dear Charles I you must go to London before 
your ordination ! What are you thinking of?” 


THE earl’s daughter. 223 

Whatever Mr. Wentworth’s thoughts were, that was not a 
moment for confiding them to his mother ; yet it might have 
been a relief to him, and he evidently felt so, for his counte- 
nance assumed for an instant an expression of openness and con- 
fidence; but Mrs. Wentworth’s tone, as she repeated to herself, 
“ London ! what a strange notion !” threw him back upon him- 
self, and he replied shortly, “ I have business there.” 

His mother did not press the inquiry beyond the observation, 
that it was a very sudden and incomprehensible idea, and took 
no notice of the suggestion respecting Eleanor, till it was made a 
second time. “ She could not tell ; she could not decide was 
all she would say upon the subject. “ Eleanor would probably 
return almost immediately .’‘ 

“ But I am thinking of going immediately,” persisted Charles ; 
“ our plans will just suit.” 

“We must first know what Eleanor’s are,” continued his 
mother. “ She says that she has been induced to remain at 
Senilhurst to keep Lady Blanche’s birthday. She hopes I shall 
not be angry. Poor child ! she need not be afraid of that ; 
vexed I might be, but not angry. In this case there seems to 
have been a train of events almost forcing her to do as she has 
done. Her visit to Senilhurst at the very first was unforeseen.” 

“ I should be thankful, my dear mother, if you would make 
the same excuses for your son that you do for your daughter,” 
said Charles, in a tone of pique. 

Mrs. Wentworth softened instantly in manner, though she 
sighed as she replied, “ if I could see the same reasons for 
excuse, my dear Charles, you would not be more thankful for it 
than I should be.” 

“ And are there not the same reasons ?” exclaimed Mr. Went- 
worth impetuously. “ Is Eleanor to go where she likes, even 
to the very place which you profess to dread for her, and must 
I not even remain for an hour at a dinner party beyond the 
time fixed ?” 

The case was too glaring not to strike Mrs. Wentworth’s 
sense of justice, and she said instantly, in a tone of apology, 
“ I was vexed then without cause — at least without sufficient 
cause. I am sorry for it ; but if you knew, oh, Charles !” and 
tears started to her eyes ; “ those little things — they indicate so 
much to my mind. If you cannot keep to engagements and 
rules in your daily life, how will you ever submit to them in 
serious matters ? How can you be fitted for the self-denial 
required of a clergyman ?” 


224 


THE EAKL’s daughter. 


“ Perhaps I am not fitted for it,” began Mr. Wentworth, but 
his mother’s distressed look stopped him, and in a milder tone 
he added, “ When I am talking to you, I always fear that I am 
not.” 

“ Fear would be your safety,” said Mrs. Wentworth. 

“ Then I am safe beyond the possibility of danger,” exclaimed 
Charles eagerly. The same expression of openness passed over 
his features as once before, but again his mother spoke, and the 
momentary courage vanished. This time, however, she was 
not chilling. 

“ You are safe, I hope and trust,” she replied very earnestly, 
“because you know your faults, and have striven against them ; 
but for that your father and I could never consent to your 
ordination. And if I am hard upon you, Charles, it is only 
from my love ; my longing to see you what a clergyman ought 
to be, what your father is.” 

■ “ Yes ; I know it, my dear mother. I am quite aware of it. 
I wish you would not apologize.” 

“ I always own when I am wrong,” said Mi-s. Wentworth. 
He drew near to wish her a good night, and she looked at him 
with a mother’s proud fondness. “ A few weeks more and you 
will be a clergyman. Then the greatest wish of my heart will 
be granted.” 

“Always supposing the fitness,” said' Charles, almost moodily. 
He sighed very heavily ; his mother thought for an instant 
that something was weighing upon his mind, that he had a 
secret which he wished to tell ; yet he only recurred to the 
often-repeated question, “ How would she feel if he were to 
give up the idea ?” Mrs. Wentworth’s heart was too full to 
answer, but her silence was sufficient. She was a person of few 
interests, few wishes ; but those she had were intense. It 
would break her heart if he were to disappoint her. 


CHAPTER XXXVH. 

There are some fortunate individuals — fortunate in the eyes 
of the world — whose success in all they undertake is proverbial. 
Lady Chadton was one of these. Whether it was from tact 
and cleverness, or real unselfishness and kindness, she almost 
universally carried her point. Such persons insensibly beconie 
despotic. Their irritation when thwarted is naturally in 


THE earl’s daughter. 


225 


accordance with their certainty of victory. But, happily for 
Eleanor Wentworth’s comfort, there were two considerations 
which neutralized in a degree, in Lady Charlton’s mind, the 
feelings excited by Sir Hugh’s announcement that he had 
insisted upon Miss Wentworth’s remaining to keep Lady 
Blanche’s birthday. One was the increase of gaiety td the 
society at Senilhurst which her presence caused ; and the other 
was the hope of inducing Mr. Johnstone in consequence to come 
to Senilhurst again, and be the lion of a grave dinner party 
which was shortly in contemplation. It was a peculiar faculty 
in Lady Charlton, that of seizing upon the advantageous points 
of every incident, however apparently untoward. The loss of 
half her fortune, or the illness of her dearest friend, might have 
affected her to despair for the moment ; but she would infallibly 
have extracted satisfaction from them the next minute. Either 
she would be an object of universal sympathy ; or her friend, if 
she died, would leave her a valuable legacy ; or — no matter 
what — there was always something to be gained. Not that 
this “ something ” mollified the first burst of resentment or 
annoyance. Lady Charlton was thoroughly cross with Eleanor 
for half a day, and with Sir Hugh for several days ; but the 
considerations before-mentioned had. the effect of supporting 
her in the endeavour to hide what was displeasing to her from 
her guests, and in making her to all appearance the same 
kind-hearted, bright, charming person, which she was generally 
allowed to be. 

As for what took place behind the scenes, in more private 
domestic intercourse, or in that still greater privacy — the sanc- 
tuary of the heart — it was not the business of any of the visitors 
at Senilhurst to inquire. 

And so the world went on — cheerfully in the morning, busily 
in the afternoon, and merrily at night ; and Mrs. Cuthbert 
Grey worked woi*sted-work, and moved gracefully, and spoke 
softly ; and Miss Grey finished the “ getting up ” of the political 
pamphlet, and was rewarded by hearing that Lord Erlsmere 
thought her a very sensible person ; and Miss Caroline Grey 
laughed at nothing, and exercised her fingers violently on the 
piano ; and Maude, and Adelaide, and Eleanor, did just what 
every one else was doing, and Blanche — 

“ Why is not Blanche at breakfast ?” asked Lady Charlton 
of Maude, when they met one morning about ten days after 
Eleanor’s first arrival. Eleanor was sitting next to Maude : she 
10 * 


226 


THE earl’s daughter. 


bad an impulse to answer, but sbe would not, because Lady 
Cbarlton bad not chosen to address bei-self to her. 

“ Blanche’s throat is uncomfortable this morning, I think,” 
replied Maude. “ Her maid told me that was the reason she 
wius not getting up : she had a bad night.” 

“ Her throat !” repeated Lady Chariton. “ I never heard of 
it. What is the matter ?” 

“ Somers will see her to-day,” said Lord Rutherford. “ I have 
sent to him.” 

Lady Charlton looked from one to the other in displeased 
surprise. 

“ Lady Blanche has not seemed quite well for the last week,” 
ohser^'ed Mi-s. Cuthbert Grey. 

“ A cold ; only a cold,” said Lord Rutherford, quickly. 
“ Yon know she has often a sore throat,” he added, turning to 
Lady Charlton. 

Lady Charlton did not know it; she was not aware that any- 
thing was amiss ; it made her extremely uncomfortable ; in fact, 
if she might be excused, it would make her happier to go at 
once and see how Blanche really was — and she left the room. 

“ Colds are awkward things^” said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey to Lord 
Erlsmere, who was sitting next her ; “ and Lady Blanche looks so 
delicate.” 

She did not intend Lord Rutherford to hear, but he did hear, 
and remarked, in answer, in a tone of — what for him was — 
great irritation, that people who looked delicate were very often 
not at all so. He was happy to say that Blanche had never 
known a day’s serious illness since her birth. 

Mrs. Cuthbert Grey smiled with polite incredulity, and hoped 
it might be very long before the spell of such good health was 
broken. 

Lord Rutherford did not thank her ; he only rang the bell 
hastily, to inquire whether the man was gone to Cobham with 
the note for Mr. Somers. 

Maude had been sitting silent for some time, seemingly with- 
out paying any attention to what was passing ; but, upon 
hearing that Mr. Somers’ note was not gone — only going, when 
some John, or Joseph, or Stephen was ready, she turned round 
quickly, and said, “ Let them take my pony and 'set off 
directly ; — directly,” she repeated, as the servant hesitated, in 
surprise, apparently, at an unusual order. “I shall not ride 
to-day.” 

“ Thank you,” said Lord Rutherford, from the opposite side 


THE earl’s daughter. 


227 


of the table. He pushed aside his plate, leaving his breakfast 
half untouched, and went to the window ; and, after a' few 
minutes’ consideration, said, laying his hand upon the bell a 
second time, “ I shall go myself — these people are so stupid. 
If Mr. Somers is not at home, the note will be lost.” 

The words were spoken to Maude ; she did not try to dissuade 
him ; only she observed that it might be as well to wait and 
hear what her mother thought about Blanche. 

Lord Rutherford sat down again, and conversation continued 
around him, but there was no life in it. Eleanor asked Maude 
a few questions about Blanche ; but Maude would not say a 
word more than was necessary, and even then answered in a 
short, disagreeable way, which was no incentive to pursue the 
subject. 

Lady Charlton returned, after rather a long absence. Lord 
Rutherford did not enquire how Blanche was, but she said of 
her own accord, that there was not much the matter — a cold, 
caught from imprudence : all young people’s colds originated in 
the same way. There was no inducing them to guard against 
the weather. Blanche had got wet about ten days or a fort- 
night before, and had not taken proper care of herself. 

“ It was the day we met at the lodge,” said Maude : “ and 
she was not well, if you remember, that evening.” 

“ And she has not been looking well since,” again repeated 
Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, in a pleasant, cheerful voice, as if sh^ was 
making the most agreeable remark possible. 

Lord Rutherford said he did not see why people should trou- 
ble themselves about the origin of colds. Blanche had one — 
that was sufficient ; she must get rid of it. Were there any 
commands for Cobham ? he was going there immediately. 

“ For Mr. Somers ?” inquired Lady Charlton. 

“ Yes, partly ; that is, I shall call just to see if he is at home. 
It is satisfactory to put things into a medical man’s hands at once, 
if only one’s finger aches. It saves one from responsibility.” 

“ And if anything does go seriously amiss afterwards,” 
remarked Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, “ one is freed from self-reproach.” 

Lord Rutherford rose,, and saying, he should see Blanche 
before he set off, left the breakfast-table. 

“ So strange it is !” observed Mrs. Cuthbert Grey to Lord 
Erlsmere, lingering for a t^te-a-t^te, when every one else was 
gone : “ so curious ! almost amusing ! to watch people trying 
to deceive themselves ! Lord Rutherford thinks he is not 
anxious ; poor man !” 


228 THE EARLES DAUGHTER. 

Lord Erlsmere said, “ Poor man !” also ; but with a very 
dilSferent feeling from Mrs. Cuthbert Grey. 

Blanche appeared at the luncheon-table, looking so like her 
usual self, so bright and simple and happy, that even Mi-s. 
Cuthbert Grey did not see any cause for pity. Lord Rutherford 
took real pains to announce Mr. Somers’ opinion. Lady Blanche 
was not well, certainly, she was delicate, and required care ; she 
had been rather imprudent, and must make up her mind not 
to be out late, and not to sit up at night ; she must take 
strengthening things ; “in short, she is to be treated as an 
invalid for the present, to keep her quiet,” he added with a 
smile, and with this dictum all were satisfied, and all went their 
own way. 

Blanche went hers ; it was to her own room : she did not 
feel as others thought she felt;' yet it was not easy to complain, 
when there was little definite to complain of, beyond a sore 
throat, which any person might have, and a sense of languor 
and weakness which might be more indolence than anything 
else. She was almost vexed at becoming more comfortable, as 
she sat writing to Mrs. Howard, and began to think herself 
fanciful. The quietness and solitude w^ere very pleasant, and 
she wrote and read and worked, till it grew dark, and then, 
tired with exertion, sat by the cheerful fire thinking till she fell 
asleep. How long she slept she did not know, but she was 
awakened suddenly by pain — that sharp indescribable pang 
which had once before so startled her ; the involuntary cry 
which she uttered was answered by a kiss from her father. He 
was bending over her with a face of the fondest anxiety. 

“ My dearest child, you frightened me,” he said ; “ but you 
are sitting uneasily : that is the matter, I suppose.” 

“ Yes, I hope so ; 1 suppose it may be,” said Blanche ; but 
she was very pale, for the pain continued, though not so 
intensely. Lord Rutherford laid her on the sofa, and placed the 
pillows for her to rest ; she smiled cheerfully then, and told him 
she was better. It was only pain for the moment, which she 
had felt before, and, no doubt, it would soon be gone. He was 
not satisfied, but scarcely choosing to acknowledge his uneasiness 
to himself, he said, with an endeavour to divert his thoughts, 
“ I was coming to tell you about my afternoon’s business. I 
have been to the lodge, and inquired after your little friend ; 
and there I met Lord Erlsmere, returning from a short ride 
with one of the Miss Greys ; so I persuaded them to join me 
and go as far as Cobham, where I made Miss Grey choose some 


THE earl’s daughter. 


229 


books and toys, wliicli are to be sent home for you to see ; and 
to-morrow we will go and give them.” 

Blanche held out her hand to him, and said, “ Thank you,” 
very earnestly ; but her voice was faint. 

“Your hand is so hot, my child — -quite feverish,” said the 
earl. “ I wish Somers had sent the medicine he talked of.” 

He was going to ring and inquire, but Blanche would not 
allow him. It was pleasant, she said, to have him for half an 
hour to herself, and she could inquire about the medicine after- 
wards ; for, if he thought it would not look fanciful, she would 
rather not go down stairs that evening. 

Lord Rutherford acquiesced ; he sat down by the sofa again, 
and went on talking to her about the little boy. He seemed to 
know everything about him — how he had slept, and what -he 
had eaten — and as. Blanche, from time to time, smiled, and was 
pleased and interested, he became quite eager, almost impatient 
in his wish to show her what he had bought. “ I shall come 
to you again, after dinner,” he said, when the dressing-bell 
rung ; “ that is, if you are not gone to-bed ; but you must not 
sit up late. If you do not nurse your cold now, you will not 
be fit for your gay birthday.” 

Blanche had no doubt that she should be quite well the next 
day — her colds were never of much consequence ; and Lord 
Rutherford agreed with her, and went away happy, as he tried 
to believe ; but the world was not quite so sunshiny as it had 
lately been. Perhaps it was that he missed Blanche in the 
drawing-room and at the dinner-table. 


CHAPTER XXXVHI. 

“ So we are not to have the pleasure of seeing Blanche this 
evening,” said Sir Hugh to Lord Rutherford, when, after a good 
deal of exertion and endurance on the part of Pearson, he had 
been moved from the drawing-room and settled at the dinner- 
table. “ A great loss, that ! We shall all feel it. ’ But we must 
hope ; if she will take care of herself now, we may anticipate 
the gratification of welcoming her in full beauty on her 
birthday.” 

“ That will be, when ?” asked Lord Erlsmere. A laugh went 
round the table. Lord Erlsmere must certainly have been 
living in the clouds ; or, as Maude whispered to her next 


230 


THE earl’s daughter. 


neighbour, in that which is the nearest approach to them- — the 
House of Commons — not to have learnt that the next Tuesday 
was to be a gala day. 

“ Oh !” Lord Erlsmere was guilty of a slight blush — for he 
undoubtedly had not been paying that full attention to the 
affairs of this lower earth, or, at least, to the affairs of Senil- 
hurst, which might have been expected from a person supposed, 
of course, to be either destined for Lady Blanche or desperately 
in love with Miss Grey. “ Wednesday is the day — the day par 
excellence,” said Sir Hugh, graciously. “ Lord Rutherford has 
done us great honour in allowing us to keep it here ; and the 
fact reminds me — 

“ Sir Hugh,” said Lady Charlton, in a tone which was quite 
melodious from its gentleness ; “ you are overlooking your 
neighbour. Miss Caroline Grey has eaten nothing.” Sir Hugh 
was all attention in an instant. 

“ Wednesday, is it ?” said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey to Lady 
Charlton, with an air of surprise and disappointment. “ I have 
made a great mistake, I thought you said Tuesday.” 

“ No ; Wednesday, the 29th. I am right, am I not Maude ? 
Wednesday, the 29th, the grand day,” exclaimed Sir Hugh, 
returning to the subject with renewed vigour ; “ and I was 
about to observe — I was about to remind Lord Rutherford — ” 
The earl was seized with a sudden interest in an observation 
made by Eleanor Wentworth, who was sitting by him. Sir 
Hugh looked from one to the other, but the tide of conver- 
sation had received an impulse which it was not easy to avert. 

Mrs. Cuthbert Grey’s next remark was made in an under 
tone to Lady Charlton. She was really vexed, she said, to find 
that Wednesday was the day, for she was very much afraid 
that some plans which she had formed would be incompatible 
with what would otherwise have been a great wash. She had 
set her heart upon Adelaide’s returning with her, and as she 
must go on the Wednesday, she was afraid this notion of the 
birthday would interfere. 

“ But Wednesday is the very day : you are not going then ; 
we could not let you go,” exclaimed Lady Charlton. “ I could 
not entertain the idea for an instant.” 

Mrs. Cuthbert Grey professed herself as vexed and disap- 
pointed as Lady Charlton could possibly have desired ; but 
again repeated that her plans were so fixed they could not 
under any circumstances be altered. It was business, indeed, 
which required her presence at home on the Thursday, and 


THE earl’s daughter. 


231 


business which could not be set aside. “ But you will perhaps 
spare Adelaide to us after the party,” she added. “ The 
distance is not very great ; and possibly, if Mr. Johnstone is 
coming here again, he might bring her back part of the way ; 
for you know they are near neighbours of purs — only at two 
miles’ distance.” 

Lady Charlton was not inclined to make any such arrange- 
ment. She was too much provoked at losing the guest whom 
she especially prized on the precise day of her intended party. 
Her only comfort arose from perceiving that Mrs. Cuthbert 
Grey was as much annoyed as herself. There was perfect 
sincerity in the regret she expressed at the unfortunate mistake. 

“ Mamma may break her heart ; but it is more than I shall 
do,” said Maude, in a low voice to Eleanor. But Eleanor did 
not answer ; she was looking across the table at Adelaide, who 
was bending forward and listening with a strange eagerness of 
manner to her mother’s decision. 

“ I hope I shall have inclination to plead for me, as far as 
you are concerned, Adelaide,” said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey smiling 
at the interest so unconsciously shown. Adelaide started, and 
coloured crimson, and answered, laughingly, that she had set 
her heart upon it : but there was no sign of anxiety given after 
this, for, during the remainder of the dinner, she kept up a 
flighty conversation with Miss Caroline Grey, which had the 
effect of chilling into gravity nearly every other person at the 
table. 

The dinner was ended, and Eleanor and Maude went to 
Blanche’s room together. Each wished the other absent. 
They had but ode feeling in common — that which centred in 
Blanche. Maude took up a book, as was her wont, and Eleanor 
rallied her for being unsociable; but still she read, or pretended 
to do so ; whilst Eleanor sat by, amusing Blanche with little 
incidents of the day. She was very quick and clever in descrip- 
tion ; and Maude was attracted hj her against her will, and 
whilst holding a volume of travels in her hand, could not avoid 
adding an occasional remark or an explanation. 

“Come, Maude, resign yourself, and be agreeable,” said 
Blanche, playfully, as Maude turned towards the light, seemingly 
determined upon being studious; “you really cannot ‘help 
yourself.” 

“No one is agreeable who is told to be so,” replied Maude, 
shortly. “ Besides you don’t want anything when Miss Went- 
worth is with you.” 


•232 


THE earl’s daughter. 


“ Yes, I do ; I want you for my own pleasure, and to scold 
Eleanor for saying a good many things she ought not.” 

“ What things ?” asked Eleanor ; and Maude put down her 
book, and gazed steadily on the fire. 

“ Lectures are for a t6te-a-tete,” answered Blanche ; “ and, 
moreover, they are not in my way.” 

“ Thank you, for supposing them in mine,” observed Maude ; 
“ but I am used to it : it has been my character from a child to 
be fond of giving them — and I think I am. Miss Wentworth 
thinks so — she cannot deny it.” 

Eleanor did not attempt to do so ; she only said that she had 
never had the honour of receiving one. 

“ That may be because she considers you incorrigible,” 
observed Blanche. “ I always deem it rather a favour to be 
lectured by people I care for ; it shows that they have not quite 
given one up.” 

“ Miss Wentworth is not likely to profit by any lectures of 
mine,” said Maude. 

Eleanor tried to laugh at what might be supposed the double 
meaning of this speech ; but it was an awkward attempt, for 
she felt much the coldness, the rudeness indeed, of Maude’s 
manner. 

Blanche looked at her cousin reproachfully. She could 
make allowance for Maude’s defect of temper, and the faults of 
a neglected education ; but this want of courtesy towards her 
frien^ and Lady Charlton’s guest, was almost more than even 
her gentleness could bear. 

“ You have no cause to be angry with me, Blanche,” said 
Maude, replying to the look. “ I only say what I mean ; I am 
not the person to lecture Miss Wentworth, if she deserves a 
lecture : ” the marked emphasis upon the if was evidently 
intended to show that, in Maude’s opinion, the lecture was 
deserved. 

Blanche was quitf afraid to reply. Eleanor sat very still, and 
very stiff, and Maude returned to her book, having thoroughly 
succeeded in stopping the conversation, if that was her ob- 
ject. 

A knock at the door, at this instant, was a seasonable relief. 
“ It must be papa,” said Blanche, “ he promised he would come 
to sit with me after dinner.” But the knock was repeated, and 
Adelaide put her head in at the door and called Eleanor away. 
There was nervousness and conscious secrecy in Eleanor’s man- 
ner as she answered, “ Coming, in one moment ; go to your 


THE earl’s daughter. 


233 


room, and I will follow you.” Adelaide still stood at the door 
without entering ; and, after hoping that Blanche was better, 
said aloud, to Maude. “ Tlie Outhbert Greys’ plans are settled, 
Maude ; they go back to Oakfield on Wednesday night, after 
the party ; hard work it will be, but it is quite settled.” 

“ Is it ? ” said Maude, without raising her eyes ; and, before 
Blar.che could ask the meaning of the information, Adelaide 
beckoned again to Eleanor, and both left the room. 

Then Maude threw aside her book, and standing before 
Blanche, whilst her eyes flashed with indignation, exclaimed, 
“ Why did you stop me from saying what I would have said ? 
Is it good for Miss Wentworth, that no one should have the 
courage to tell her the truth, and make her ashamed of the part 
she is playing ? ” Blanche was lying on the sofa, very tired 
and worried ; she had not strength or inclination to enter upon 
the subject, and Maude’s vehemence chilled her, it seemed so 
misplaced. “ I thought you had more in you, Blanche,” con- 
tinued Maude ; “ more courage and energy.” 

Tears were in Blanche’s eyes as much from fatigue as vexa- 
tion. “ I don’t know what you are talking about, Maude,” she 
answered ; “ it is all such a mystery. Perhaps you will leave 
it till another time, for I don’t feel very well to-night.” 

Maude became more gentle, but she did not seem willing to 
defer what she had to say, and continued, “ It may be very 
cruel, Blanche, to put you up to the ways of the world. You 
are walking through it blindfold, happily for you ; happily for 
all who can do so. But remember you have been warned ; and 
if you will still allow yourself to be infatuated by Miss Went- 
worth, the fault is not mine. Yet I should have thought,” she 
added, “ that anything like manoeuvring would have been 
foreign to your nature.” 

Blanche was completely roused for the moment. “ Manoeuv- 
ring ! ” she exclaimed. “ Maude, this is only a repetition of 
the charge you made against Eleanor before. I thought I had 
told you that I would not bear to hear it brought forward with- 
out proof.” 

“ And you have not seen any proof, then, during the fortnight 
you have been together,” said Maude sarcastically. “ Well; I 
suppose it is possible — wilful blindness is greater than any 
other. But, if you have not, I can assure you that I have. 
Every look and word of Miss Wentworth’s convinces me that 
she has a double-meaning in her visit ; that she is manoeuvring 
for her brother and Adelaide : and what is more that she 


234 


THE earl’s daughter. 


wishes to draw you into her schemes. I could not tell you all 
the facts from which I draw my conclusions. Some things I 
see, some I hear. It may be all folly now, but it may be seri- 
ous by-and-by ; and you, Blanche, true and simple though you 
are — so true and so simple, that I would give all I am worth to 
resemble you — may be led to join with them : they will reckon 
upon your good nature.” 

“ If they do,” began Blanche indignantly — but she stopped, 
and added, “ no, I will not, I cannot believe it.” 

“ Do believe, do think,” said Maude, persuasively. “ Believe 
whatever may save you from being like them, from being any- 
thing but what you are.” 

“ You make me very unhappy,” replied Blanche ; “ I wish I 
knew your object. Why, if you suspect anything amiss, do 
you not go to your mother, instead of speaking mysteriously 
to me ?” 

“ And have you, then, really lived so long with us without 
understanding us ?” exclaimed Maude. “ Can you be childish 
enough to suppose that I should go and make vague complaints, 
and aggravate my mother’s temper, in the hope of -inducing 
Adelaide to behave as a woman of sense, instead of an idiot.? 
My dear Blanche, there is not in the house, at this moment, a 
single individual — I say it calmly and advisedly ; — no, there is 
not one, yourself excepted, whom I would trust to act with com- 
mon prudence as far as Adelaide is concerned. They are all — ” 

“ I do not wish to hear what they are,” said Blanche firmly ; 
“ and I would rather that you should not make me the excep- 
tion. It is quite impossible that any one of my age, and with 
my ignorance of the world — which you know, Maude, you are 
always reminding me of — should know how to act or advise in 
such a case.” 

“No,” said Maude, more quietly; “it is not impossible. 
You have influence over Miss Wentworth ; and you have also 
the one qualification — the basis of all good judgment — you are 
true and consistent.” 

“ I would try to be so,” was Blanche’s reply. 

Maude stood in silence for a few instants, her large cold grey 
eyes riveted upon the lovely features of her young cousin, 
which now bore the expression of pain, both of body and mind. 

“ To-morrow,” said Blanche, “ we will talk more of this.” 
Maude did not notice the words ; a cloud of thought seemed 
passing over her. “To-morrow,” repeated Blanche; and 
Maude started, like one awakened from a dream. 


THE earl’s daughter. 


235 


“ To-morrow did you say ? Yes, if you will ; but, oh 
Blanche ! in pity do not let me be deceived in The 

tone in which she spoke Was strangely different from the chilling 
bitterness of her former voice. 

Blanche raised her eyes to her, and asked, “ Why are you 
afraid for me ?” 

Maude did not answer the question. She knelt down beside 
her, and said, “ I have talked too long. Can I help you in any 
way before you go to bed ?” 

“ Thank you, no ; I shall not go to bed yet. I could not 
sleep.” 

“ You will lie here and think ; that will be very bad for 
you,” said Maude. 

“ How can I help it ? to be suspicious and distrustful ! to 
doubt Eleanor! Maude, you should not put such thoughts 
into my head.” 

“ It was necessary,” replied Maude. “ But drive them from 
you, at least to-night. Let me read, and make you think of 
other things.” She took from the table the same volume of 
travels which she had been looking at before the conversation 
began. 

Blanche smiled, and thanked her ; but added, “ I had better 
read to myself.” 

“ Because you are afraid of troubling me ; but I should like 
it. Shall it be this ?” and she held out the book. Blanche 
hesitated. “ You would prefer something else, only tell me 
what.” 

“ I am too tired and too vexed for common reading,” replied 
Blanche. “ You had better say good night, and ask papa to 
come to me.” 

Maude turned round almost sharply, and said, “ If I were 
any one else you would like me to read the Bible.” 

“ I should like you to read it, very much, I cannot say how 
much, if I thought you would like it,” said Blanche. 

Maude only replied by putting a Bible into her cousin’s 
hands. Blanche opened it, and pointed to one of the conclud- 
ing chapters of St. John’s Gospel. It was read without hesita- 
tion, and ended without comment, and Maude went away. 


236 


THE earl’s daughter. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Blanche could not sleep, as she had feared would he the 
case. Even the words of unspeakable comfort, of unutterable 
love, that had soothed her when read by Maude, failed to chase 
the wearying thoughts, which partly from feverishness, and 
partly from the evening’s conversation, harassed her mind. If 
she fell asleep, it was only to mingle in confused scenes of dis- 
tress with Adelaide and Eleanor and her aunt ; or to imagine 
herself guilty of some unknown offence, or involved with others 
in some great punishment. She awoke continually, and still 
the distant sound of voices in the drawing-room below, oi the 
notes of the piano or the harp, reminded her that she was the 
only person who had as yet retired to rest. There came at last 
a pause, as the party was breaking up, and Blanche in that 
interval fell asleep again, and when she again unclosed her 
eyes, it seemed as if she had slept a long time. She sat up to 
look at her watch. It was just eleven. She had not then slept 
so very long, and on listening she could still hear a few move- 
ments in the house, and murmuring voices near ; yes, very 
near, in the gallery by her dressing-room, the door into which 
was partly open. They were very low, and Blanche could not 
at first distinguish them ; but after the lapse of a few minutes, 
a push, it seemed an angry one, was given to the dressing-room 
door, and Adelaide and Eleanor, both speaking together, 
entered. Blanche was startled for an instant, and then, sup- 
posing they were wishing to see if she was asleep, laid her head 
again on her pillow, expecting them to come into the bed-room ; 
but there was a delay. 

“ Remember, Adelaide,” she heard Eleanor say eagerly, “ you 
may carry your amusement a little too far. Mrs. Cuthbert 
Grey will never countenance any folly.” 

Adelaide laughed lightly, and replied, “ We shall not do her 
the honour of asking for her countenance ; besides, if you are 
afraid, you know the alternative.” Silence followed for some 
seconds, when it was again broken by Adelaide, “ You need not 
trouble yourself to-night,” she said. “ Talk to her to-morrow 
quietly, and bring her round ; and I have given my word of 
honour, so has Charles. Your difficulty will be at an end.” 

“ Will it ?” asked Eleanor, thoughtfully. 

“ Yes ; do you doubt us ?” 

“ Charles is so rash ; so fearfully rash,” said Eleanor. “ He 
will not hear of delay.” 


THE earl’s daughter. 


237 


By this time Blanche had become aware that what was said 
was not intended for her ears. She coughed to give the idea 
that she was awake, and repeated Eleanor’s name ; but, in the 
eagerness of conversation, she was not heard, and she could 
not help catching Adelaide’s reply, “We are both sick of 
delay ; and if you will not do any thing for us, you must ex- 
pect us to do something for ourselves.” 

There was a movement as if Adelaide was going. It seemed 
that Eleanor detained her, for in a voice of anxious entreaty she 
said, “ Adelaide, have you no pity for my mother ? If you 
encourage him to any rash step, it will kill her ; it will be sad 
enough as it is,” she added, in a lower tone. 

Adelaide only burst from her, closed the dressing-room door 
hastily, and Eleanor was left alone. 

All was very still then : Blanche could hear the beating of 
her own heart as she waited for Eleanor’s coming. She could 
have thought that nearly a quarter of an hour had gone by 
before there was the very gentle tap and the stealthy footstep, as 
of one who was afraid of intruding ; — so many thoughts and 
such painful misgivings were crowded into a few moments. 
What could be the meaning of all she had heard ? Why did 
Eleanor come to her at all ? Was it only kindness, or had she 
some secret, something to ask or to tell ? and could it really be 
wrong, could there really be a foundation for Maude’s warnings ? 
could Eleanor, — but she had no more time for such question- 
ings, Eleanor stood by her bedside, shading the candle which 
she held in her hand, so that the light scarcely fell upon her 
features, whilst she asked hurriedly, whether Blanche had been 
asleep, and if she was feeling at all better. The inquiries were 
made as a matter of coui-se, and Blanche answered them in the 
same indifferent manner. She could think of nothing but 
of what might be still to come. 

“ Then I can do nothing for you, dear,” said Eleanor, stoop- 
ing down to kiss Blanche. The light fell upon her face as she 
raised herself : Blanche had never seen her look so wretched. She 
kept her hand, longing to speak, but not knowing how to begin. 

“ Good night,” said Eleanor, trying to withdraw herself. 

“'Good night,” repeated Blanche. A pang of conscience 
followed the words, as if she was deceiving Eleanor, and she 
added, “ Must you go ?” 

“ I think I must. Do you know how late it is ?” 

“ After eleven ; but can’t you stay a few minutes ?” Eleanor 
sat down. 


238 


THE earl’s daughter. 


“It seems selfish, too,” continued Blanche, affectionately. 

“ You look very fagged. Had you a pleasant evening ?” 

“ Yes, very but Eleanor could not bring herself to give 
any particulars of it. 

“ Is Adelaide going to Mrs. Cuthbert Grey’s ?” begun 
Blanche, hoping to bring round the conversation by degrees ; 
but contrivance was so opposite to her character, that in the 
pause which preceded the reply, she exclaimed, “Eleanor, I 
must tell you one thing ; I could not sleep or be happy if I did 
not. I heard what you and Adelaide said ; I could not help 
it.” She expected a burst of indignation ; but the stillness of 
the hour was broken only by a stifled sob, as Eleanor leant her 
head upon Blanche’s pillow, and cried bitterly. 

“ I did not understand it ; and I do not wish to know any 
thing, dearest,” said Blanche, fondly. “ Only forgive me. 

I know it could not be wrong — -just say that it is nothing 
wrong,” she added, in her simplicity betraying the doubt which 
pained her. Eleanor put aside the arm which was thrown 
round her, and apparently ashamed of her weakness and 
jvishing to hide it, said as she sat upright, “ What did 
you hear, Blanche ? — and how did you hear it ?” 

Blanche repeated, as well as she could recollect, the sub- 
stance of what had passed, saying again, as she concluded, 

“ Don’t explain ; I would rather you should not.” 

Eleanor’s lips became white with agitation. She looked 
steadily at Blanche for an instant, and then answered, “ Blanche, 
you will trust me, I am sure. I have trusted you from child- 
hood. Grant me what I ask.” 

“ If I can, — tell me only what I am to do,” said Blanche, 
frightened by her manner. 

“ But, before I tell — now — promise me.” 

Blanche drew back. “ Before ! it is impossible.” 

“ Hot to me, in whom you have so much confidence !” 
exclaimed Eleanor, reproachfully. 

Blanche could scarcely bear to realize her own doubt, and she 
continued, “It is wrong to promise anything in ignorance; 
therefore I cannot.” 

“ But ignorance may be your good,” said Eleanor ; “ it may . 
save you from pain.” 

Blanche looked at her with sadness and surprise ; then she 
answered almost coldly, “ A year ago, you would not have 
asked this. You know I cannot consent.” It was a tone and 
manner which it was impossible to mistake, for it spoke a fixed 


THE EARL S DAUGHTER. 


239 


decision ; and Eleanor had long since learnt that Blanche, 
gentle and yielding though she appeared, possessed much of the 
resolute spirit of her family. 

“ Then, if you will not,” she exclaimed, “ we will leave the 
subject for to-night. You can hear more another time, if you 
wish it.” 

“No,” said Blanche, eagerly, yet very seriously, “we will not 
wait ; you have led me so far, that you are bound to be 
candid.” 

“ It is a small request,” answered Eleanor, in a musing tone. 
“ It will not injure you or inconvenience you ; and you will 
do more good by it than you know or think.” 

“ Only let me know it,” repeated Blanche. “ If there is 
nothing wrong, there can be no cause for hesitation.” 

“ You are suspicious,” exclaimed Eleanor. “ Blanche, I would 
not suspect you.” 

Blanche was silent. 

“Maude Charlton has made you so,” continued Eleanor; 
“ she hates me. If it had not been for you, Blanche, I would 
not have borne her behaviour ; and now to find that even you 
have turned against me !” 

Blanche could not attempt to vindicate herself — she only 
said in a faint voice, “ I should like to know what I am to do.” 

“ I would not ask a favor for myself,” began Eleanor, 
proudly ; “ but it is for Charles and for my mother. Oh ! 
Blanche !” and her angry tone changed into one of the most 
earnest entreaty, “ forgive me for being so hasty ; I am very 
wretched.” 

Blanche drew her affectionately towards her, and said “ What 
am I to grant ? — all I have is yours.” 

“ ifc is but to ask for — to persuade Lord Rutherford ; he has 
in his gift — she paused, hoping that Blanche would conclude 
the sentence ; but no help was given her, and at length, slowly 
and with shame, came the words — “ the living of Whitfield is 
vacant ; if it might be for Charles — promised him, kept for him, 
I mean” — she added. “ Such things are done.” Blanche did 
not speak. “ It is a very little thing,” repeated Eleanor : “ I 
wonder I was so shy of asking,” and she laughed that cold 
empty laugh which betrays an aching heart. 

Blanche was strangely silent and still. 

Eleanor was frightened. “ It is but a trifle after all,” she re- 
peated again : “ so you will say. Yes, dearest ; and I will go.” 

But Blanche caught her dress as she was about to take up 


240 


THE earl’s DAUaHTER. 


her candle, and said in a very quiet, low voice, “ Don’t ask it 
again” 

Eleanor did not catch the full meaning of the words, and 
replied, “ Yes, you are right ; we can’t talk of it now ; it is so late. 
I would not have told you, if you had not insisted upon it.” 

“ But, Eleanor, Eleanor, listen ;” and Blanche kept her hand, 
and grasped it tightly, “ I cannot ; — that was what I meant ; 
— I cannot.” . 

Eleanor put down the candle and sat down on a chair, with 
a face of blank dismay. 

“ I can scarcely ask you to understand,” said Blanche, her 
courage returning with the effort she had made ; “ but it is such 
great, great pain to refuse.” 

Eleanor covered her face with her hands, and seemed buried 
in thought. When she looked up she was very pale and agi- 
tated, but not as Blanche had feared ; there was no anger. 

“I think, perhaps, you will know why I cannot,” said 
Blanche, gently, “ when you consider more. I do not know 
your brother well ; he has not been tried ; he may not be fitted 
for it ; and the responsibility would be so great, if I were to do 
as you desire. Is there nothing else I can do ?” 

“ Nothing ; but to forget the request was ever made.” 

The tone in which this was said was despairing, and a sudden 
perception of the truth crossed Blanche’s mind. “Eleanor,” 
she exclaimed, “you are asking this for Adelaide Charlton.” 

“ I am asking it for myself,” replied Eleanor, in the same cold 
tone of wretchedness, “ and for my mother, and my father — foi 
all our happiness ; and you refuse it. Good night.” 

“ Oh ! Eleanor ! how cruel ! ” exclaimed Blanche ; “ but you 
do not mean it.” 

“ I mean that my happiness and my mother’s are in your 
hands,” said Eleanor. “ Good night.” 

Blanche could bear this no longer. In pity, Eleanor !” she 
said, “ do not keep me in mystery. Why are you so miserable ? 
How is it that so much is involved in this one request ?” 

“ Will you know ?” asked Eleanor, her eyes lighted up with a 
gleam of hope. 

“Know? yes, anything; if I can only comfort and help 
you.” 

Eleanor paused. 

Blanche waited, tremblingly, for her reply. She did not see — 
for it was not a time of reasoning — that her refusal was founded 
upon grounds which nothing ought to shake. 


THE earl’s daughter. 


241 


“We may trust you,” continued Eleanor, speaking more to 
herself than to Blanche; “you could not betray us. Yes, I am 
sure we may trust you.” She paused again, and then added, 
“ Should you be very much surprised — would it seem very 
strange if — if you were to hear that Adelaide and Charles were 
engaged ?” 

“ Engaged ! — actually engaged ?” was all that Blanche could 
say ; and there was more surprise, and even displeasure, in her 
tone than Eleanor was prepared for. 

“ You shall hear about it,” said Eleanor. . “ I was afraid you 
would be vexed ; yet I could not tell you before.” 

“ I am not thinking of myself,” replied Blanche, quickly ; 
“ but quite engaged ! who allows it ?” 

“They allow it themselves,” answered Eleanor, with a faint 
effort at a smile. “ But, Blanche, dearest, I will tell you as 
shortly as I can, and then, — ” she did not dare to utter her 
hopes, but Blanche understood them — “ it was soon after you 
left Rutherford they wrote to each other,” began Eleanor; 
“ that is — not themselves at first” — she waited for a moment, 
and then continued, passionately, “ I must say it all out plainly : 
it is my doing — my folly ! Oh ! how bitterly I have repented 
it. I let them send messages in my letters ; I don’t know why ; 
it was mere idle nonsense. I never thought for an instant that 
anything serious would follow ; and Charles did not give me 
the least notion of what he was going to do ; but he proposed 
quite suddenly : a sort of impulse, he told me afterwards, seized 
him. He proposed, and she accepted him, and they were 
engaged.” 

Blanche looked at her quietly and simply, and asked, “ And 
what did your mother say ?” 

“ My dear, dear Blanche ! what are you thinking of ? Of all 
persons on the face of the earth, Charles dreads my mother. 
He would have borne torture rather than acknowledge the fact 
to her.” 

“ But she musii know it,” said Blanche. 

“ Yes, in time ; when she is prepared. But you can scarcely 
understand what her character is like — so strong, so stern, and 
devoted ; so rigidly bent upon duty, and yet so excitable, and 
her one object in life her children — Charles especially ; that is 
her object of anxiety ; she has less fear for me,” and Eleanor 
sighed deeply. 

“She would not like the marriage, I can believe,” said 
Blanche. 


11 


242 


THE earl’s daughter. 


“ No ; she is very much prejudiced : she has a dislike to 
Adelaide ; and, independently of that, she has a horror of any- 
thing which would interfere with Charles’s duties ; which would 
make him less earnest just as he is going to be ordained ; and 
she would feel — it would half kill her, I believe, if he were to 
do anything rash, now.” 

“ Yes,” said Blanche, thoughtfully ; “ a marriage with a per- 
son like Adelaide at such a moment would be very sad.” 

“ Quite dreadful, in mamma’s eyes,” exclaimed Eleanor ; “ and 
that is what I am bent upon preventing.” 

Blanche looked at her for a further explanation. 

“ You will scarcely see what I am aiming at, at first,” pur- 
sued Eleanor ; “ but there is one hope, and only one. Both 
Adelaide and Charles are wild, I believe : they think they can 
live upon nothing, Charles might, by the interest of an uncle, 
get into the army ; but neither he nor Adelaide will now let 
me fully into their plans. Adelaide dreads the thing being 
known, and says her mother will never hear of her marrying a 
country curate, and she encourages Charles in the notion of the 
army.” 

“ It is very strange to me,” said Blanche, “ that a person like 
Adelaide should ever have engaged herself to a country curate.” 

“ She is so thoughtless,” replied Eleanor ; “ I really suspect 
she scarcely knows what a country curate means ; only that it is 
something Lady Charlton would not like ; and then, to do her 
justice, she is not mercenary, and, I believe, cares for Charles as 
much — as much as she can care for any one. You will under- 
stand, Blanche, what a very awkward state of affairs this is.” 

“ Very,” replied Blanche ; in her heart thinking it so awk- 
ward that she heartily repented having been made 'acquainted 
with it. 

“ Now,” continued Eleanor, “ I know Charles well enough 
to be quite sure he will not go on in this way long. He might 
persuade Adelaide to a private marriage, even: I would not 
trust him.” 

“ No, no,” exclaimed Blanche ; “ you must be unjust to him. 
It would be such a bitter grief to his mother.” 

■■ It would be worse than that,” said Eleanor very gravely ; 
“ it would nearly kill her just now, on the very eve of his ordi- 
nation : she, who has such strict notions on all these subjects, 
to be so disappointed in him. Blanche, it would be very, 
very dreadful for her to bear.” There was a silence for several 
moments, and at last Eleanor raised her eyes timidly to 


THE earl’s daughter. 


243 


Blanche’s face, and said, “ You can prevent it.” There was no 
need for Blanche to seek for an explanation; Eleanor had 
reached the point she had been aiming at, and in a hurried voice 
added, “ If Charles had any prospects in the Church ; if he 
had the promise of such a living as Whitfield, for instance ; his 
circumstances would be so altered that he would not be ashamed 
to come forward openly, and Adelaide would not be afraid, not 
so much afraid at least, to acknowledge their engagement. Sir 
Hugh would take her part, if Lady Charlton did not.” 

“ And your mother and Dr. Wentworth ?” asked Blanche. 

“ They would be very grieved ; they would think it infatua- 
tion ; but, if there was nothing clandestine or underhand, they 
would be more inclined to excuse it.” 

“ But at such a time, just before his ordination,” persisted 
Blanche. 

“They would not know it was thought of now,” replied 
Eleanor. “ If Charles had any certainty before him, he would 
wait. Christmas is near ; he would delay mentioning the sub- 
ject until he was ordained, and then he would prepare them for 
it by degrees. It is only this lingering uncertainty which frets 
him and drives him to desperation. And one thing, Blanche — 
if things go on as they are, I am convinced that he will never take 
orders. Adelaide’s influence will lead him in a contrary direc- 
tion ; and, if the engagement were to be known, both my father 
and mother would dissu ide him from it, at least for the present 
— they would say his mind was not in a fit state, and he might 
go into the army ; into a merchant’s office — into— I don’t know 
what he would do ; but mamma would be miserable for life.” 

“But Eleanor, Eleanor,” exclaimed Blanche, and she sat up 
and looked at her friend as if distrusting the evidence of her rea- 
son as to the meaning of what she had heard ; “ surely, if your 
father and mother would not consider him fit, he is not so ; he 
cannot be so in the eye of God ; and to induce him to take such 
awful vows ! — to encourage him in any way to such self-decep- 
tion ! — indeed, you do not see what you are doing.” 

“ I was prepared for this,” said Eleanor, calmly ; “ remember 
you are judging Charles without knowing him. You say he can- 
not be fit for holy orders now, because his heart is set upon this 
unhappy engagement. But I know him a great deal better 
thah you do. Let him once feel himself bound, and I venture 
to say there is not a clergyman in England who will do his duty 
more conscientiously. And consider, after all, there is no great 
sin in what he is about. He is in love ; you and I think it very 


244 


THE earl’s daughter. 


strange he should be ; but then, you know, we cannot under« 
stand half the marriages that take place— we wonder at them 
constantly. I do not think we, either of us, are able to make 
excuses for him, such as persons would do who were more used 
to such nonsense.” 

“ But Eleanor,” said Blanche, earnestly, “ I don’t think being 
' in love, as it is called, is nonsense. It involves all the happi- 
ness of a person’s life ; and if people do not act rightly when 
they are in love, I cannot see how they are to expect a blessing 
when they are married.” 

“ There is no harm in being in love, that is all I am contend- 
ing for,” said Eleanor. “ It does not follow that Charles is not 
to make a very good clergyman, because, unfortunately, he has 
lost his heart to Adelaide Charlton.” 

“ Oh ! Eleanor,” exclaimed Blanche, reproachfully, “ you are 
trying to argue with me as you used to do at St. Ebbe’s. You 
are keeping to the letter of my words, and missing the spirit.” 
She turned away her head, as if to put an end to the subject ; 
but' Eleanor would not be thus silenced. 

“ Listen to me once more, dearest Blanche,” she said in an 
altered voice, “ I will not argue in the way you dislike. I will 
grant all you say, if you wish it ; but my mother was your 
mother’s l^st friend — the only friend who helped her in her 
hour of need. For the sake of my mother, and in remembrance 
of your mother, grant what I have asked.” Blanche looked 
round with an expression of such intense suffering in her coun- 
tenance, that Eleanor could almost have wished the allusion 
withheld. Yet she pursued her advantage selfishly, merci- 
lessly ; she thought that ^ she was seeking the happiness of 
others. “ It is no exaggeration,” she said, “ mamma is no com- 
mon person ; she has for years dwelt upon the hope of seeing 
Charles a clergyman, and she has had no other great interests 
to distract her from it. Her anxiety for him, during the last 
two years, has weakened her health, and I would not answer for 
the consequences of a disappointment. If you persist in your 
refusal, I have no expectation whatever that Charles will ever 
take orders ; he will be driven to some desperate step which will 
bring misery upon us all ; on the other hand, give him a certain 
hope, and he will be patient and good, and bend his thoughts 
to his duties ; and after he is ordained, and quietly settled down 
as a clergyman, he will break the matter to papa and mamma ; 
and though there might be a good deal of fuss and difficulty at 
first, all will be well in the end. Oh, Blanche ! surely you can- 


THE earl’s daughter. 


245 • 


not refuse now ?” Blanche was silent. “ You shall think of it,” 
persisted Eleanor. “ I have kept you awake a great deal too 
long to-night ; but to-morrow morning you shall tell me that 
you will agree. It is the first great favour, the first real favour, 
I ever asked of you.” Blanche returned the kiss, which accom- 
panied these words, warmly; but her face was burning with 
fever and agitation, and her cheeks were wet with tears. For 
the moment Eleanor reproached herself ; yet even then her 
eagerness got the better of her real affection, and. as she wished 
Blanche good night, she added, “ Remember, my mother’s hap- 
piness rests upon your decision.” 


CHAPTER XL. 

And now, my dear Lady Charlton, you really will let me per- 
suade you,” said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, the next morning, as she 
sat at the writing table, sealing letters for the post, and profess- 
ing that her necessary correspondence was the very torment of 
her life ; “ you really will let me carry off Adelaide. I quite see 
all your objections ; the awkward time, just after your party, 
and the long night drive, and the discomforts ; but you know 
I will take uncommon care of her, just the same as I would of 
my own child.” 

“ There was no doubt of that,” Lady Charlton said, though 
not very cordially. 

“ Then what are the obstacles ? if I could only know them 
and obviate them, I should be so glad.” 

“ I am not sure that I could say why I object,” replied Lady 
Charlton, assuming an air of frankness; “it is a question of 
feehng more than of principle. Adelaide is so unfortunately 
thoughtless.” 

“Yes — ^young, girlish — ^you could not be afraid of her 
with me.” 

“ Of course not ; you must not think so ; but I am always 
more happy when Adelaide is under my own eye. A mother’s 
anxiety you know !” and Lady Charlton sighed. 

“Certainly; no one can enter into that more than Ido,” 
replied Mrs. Cuthbert Grey ; “ left with two dear girls — not a 
person to look to — no Sir Hugh to manage for one ; at times 
the burthen is indescribable. Agnes, love,” and she turned to 
her eldest daughter, who was working at the other end of the 


246 


THE earl’s daughter. 


room, “ I think you had better be dressed for your ride before 
luncheon. The days close in so fast now, you will have no time 
if you don’t set olf directly afterwards.” 

Miss Grey expressed a doubt whether some change had not 
taken place in the general plans since breakfast. Lord Ruther- 
ford, she thought, was to have gone with them, but Maude had 
told her he had changed his mind, so perhaps there would be 
no riding that day. 

“ Oh, yes, my love, put on your habit ; I won’t hear of you 
staying at home, if there is a possibility of going out. So deli- 
cate as she is,” continued Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, addressing Lady 
Charlton, “it would be quite wrong to miss such a day as this ; 
and some one will be certain to take pity on her. But why was 
the party broken up, my dear ; do you know ?” 

Miss Grey did not know, but she believed it was Lord Ruther- 
ford’s doing. He had come into the room about an hour before, 
looking very uncomfortable ; and, after that, she had heard from 
Maude that he was not going. 

“ He is anxious,” said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, carelessly. 

“ Lady Blanche ought to be better this morning,” observed 
Miss Grey ; “ she is down stairs, and has been sitting with Lord 
Rutherford.” 

“ Yes, for nearly an hour,” observed Lady Charlton, in a par- 
ticularly grave voice. 

Ml'S. Cuthbert Grey instantly changed her tone, and inquired 
whether Lady Charlton thought there was any cause for anxiety. 

“ Not exactly,” was the reply. Mr. Somers had assured them 
there was not anything seriously amiss, only care was required. 
And naturally enough with an only child, even a slight indis- 
position was a subject of uneasiness. 

“ liady Blanche is going out, I rather think,” said Miss Grey, 
“ and Lord Rutherford is to drive her.” 

“ Going out ! — impossible !” exclaimed Lady Charlton. “ My 
dear Miss Grey, why did you not tell me before? I must 
instantly prevent it.” She hurried from the room as Miss Grey 
said, in an under tone, “ Prevent it, if possible ; but that is not 
quite the order of the day.” 

“ Then what is it ? — What is the matter, Agnes, my love ? 
Is Lady Blanche seriously worse?” inquired Mrs. Cuthbert 
Grey, with some curiosity. 

“ Not that I know of,” replied Miss Grey ; “ at least Maude 
told me she was not ; but I caught a glimpse of her for a moment, 
and she looks ten degrees at least worse than yesterday.” 


THE earl’s daughter. 


247 


“ And they are uneasy, then,” continued her mother. “ Well, 
that is not to be wondered at ; though really, if I were Lord 
Rutherford, I could be happier to see her dying of consumption, 
than to know that she was to live to be what her mother was.” 

“ Lady Rutherford ! there was nothing the matter with her, 
mamma, more than ordinary illness, was there ?” inquired Miss 
Grey, quickly. 

“ Only that she was out of her mind,” replied Mrs. Cuthbert 
Gre;^ ; “ and that there is every probability that this poor child, 
if she lives, will be the same.” 

Miss Grey looked very much shocked. She had never heard 
the fact before. 

“ It is not generally known,” continued Mrs. Cuthbert Grey ; 
“ the family tried to keep it as quiet as possible : but things will 
get abroad through servants, and there is no doubt poor Lady 
Rutherford was quite insane ; a kind of melancholy madness, 
which took a religious turn.” 

“ Lady Blanche is very religious,” observed Miss Grey. 

“ Yes ; and it is that which would make me so uneasy. Lord 
Rutherford is not satisfied himselt^ I am sure ; he watches her 
unceasingly ; I have observed him particularly the last few 
days.” 

“ Lady Blanche looked melancholy enough this morning,” 
observed Miss Grey ; “ she was coming down the stairs, wrapt up 
in a shawl ; and I thought her the picture of misery ; and just 
at that moment Miss Wentworth met her, and she seemed so 
hurried and fluttered, I really pitied her.” 

“ I should not like it,” said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, shaking her 
head. “ Those peculiar notions of hers are just the things to 
turn her brain. I don’t mean that there is any likelihood of 
such a calamity, at the present time, poor child ! It would be 
dreadful if there were ; but if she were to fall into ill health, and 
these morbid fancies were to increase, I should not be in the 
least surprised : it was precisely the case with her mother. 
People said Lord Rutherford did not treat her well ; but he had 
a great deal to bear, I suspect. I hope it won’t be the same 
thing over again now.” 

“ Every one is out of sorts this morning,” observed Miss Grey ; 
“ Maude Charlton is shorter and sharper than ever. Really, if 
it were not for her splendid voice, no one would bear with her : 
and Adelaide is in such a strange mood, I can’t in the least make 
her out. One minute she laughs and talks as if she was in the 
highest spirits, and then she seems quite abstracted.” 


248 


THE earl’s daughter. 


“ Whimsical, my dear, whimsical,” said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, 
oracularly. “ Adelaide likes being odd ; but we will carry her 
away with us, and we shall soon bring back her spirits.” 

“ Jf she will go,” observed Miss Grey. “ She seemed doubt- 
ful at first, when I spoke about it this morning ; but there will 
be an attraction for her in the neighbourhood. Miss Went- 
worth and her brother will be at Mr. Johnstone’s.” 

“ Her brother !” repeated Mrs. Cuthbert Grey : “ I never 
heard of him.” 

“ Oh, mamma !” and Miss Grey laughed. “ I thought every 
one knew about Adelaide’s flirtation with Mr. W'entworth.” 

“ I think I have heard something,” was the reply ; “ but you 
know, my dear Agnes, if one is to be always au fait upon the 
subject of Adelaide’s follies, one must make it the labour of life. 
A great pity it is such a nice girl as she is, in many ways, should 
have been so .carelessly brought up. I must not keep you, how- 
ever, my love. Put on your riding habit, and you will be sure 
to find some one to accompany you. And remember, dear, if it 
should chance to be Lord Erlsmere, and you should be talking 
of Lady Blanche, you must not speak quite as plainly as I did 
just now about the unfortunate malady. It does not do to give 
more than a hint upon such topics ; especially where it is possi- 
ble the subject may be a tender one ; though, for his own sake, 
one could wish that he knew the facts well. Now go and dress 
as quickly as you can.” 


CHAPTER XLI. 

Miss Grey’s observation, that every one was out of sorts that 
morning, was quite correct. A much stronger expression indeed 
might have been used to describe what seemed the prevailing 
spirit of indefinable gloom and uneasiness. With one, the most 
innocent and guileless of all, it was a melancholy which could 
not be concealed or cast oflf ; and there were those about her, 
who, from different causes, were so influenced by her as to feel 
their own spirits rise or fall with hers. Lord Rutherford did not 
believe, with Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, that his child’s religious 
notions were in themselves likely to injure her mind. He had 
already seen too much of their soothing and strengthening 
effect to indulge such fears. Perhaps, if he had been asked, he 
might even have allowed that they were the ballast to a dispo- 


THE earl’s daughter. 


249 


sition naturally too excitable ; but the one dread which — though 
he shrank from owning it to himself — was never entirely absent 
from his thoughts, made him look with suspicious anxiety upon 
eveiy indication of depression or inequality of spirits, as being 
the possible precursor of that morbid sadness which had caused 
so much of the misery of her mother’s life. Of physical illness 
he thought far less. Blanche was delicate ; but not, he 
imagined, more so than many who seemed likely to live to old 
age. He had never permitted himself to deem it possible that 
she could be taken from him ; it was an idea so dreadful, that 
if, for a moment, it crossed his mind, he discarded it as weak, 
self-tormenting. Blanche was his one treasure — that for which 
alone life could be endured — and it could not be — so he had at 
times said to himself — ^it could not be, that she should be 
removed, and he be left desolate. Why it could not be he 
never inquired — why he was to be saved from a .dal to which 
thousan^is before him had been subjected, or what he had done 
to deserve such an exemption. Suffering had for years been 
present to him only in remembrance ; and he could not yet 
believe, that, except under one form, it might again be inflicted 
in the mercy or the wrath of God. 

Yet something did come before him that morning, as he sat 
alone with Blanche in the study within the library, where his 
mornings were usually spent — a shadow, though faint and dis- 
tant, of coming evil. 

Blanche had dressed earlier than he expected; and he 
thought, when he saw her in her room, she must be better — at 
least she did not complain ; and when he begged her to come 
down stairs, and stay with him quietly instep of remaining by 
herself, she had consented readily. There seemed less to cause 
uneasiness than even on the preceding day, as regarded her 
health ; but there was a change in her manner which he could 
not help noticing. She was so very quiet, so wrapt up in her 
own thoughts ; and any attention to what he said was evidently 
such an effort. He hinted several times his fear that she was 
fretted, anxious, uncomfortable ; but there was always the same 
sweet smile and bright glance of gratitude and love in answer, 
and for the moment he was satisfied that it was mere fancy ; yet 
a little more observation brought back suspicion. Something 
was weighing upon her mind causing melancholy and reserve ; 
and the supposition which would have crossed the mind of 
another, as a natural annoyance, gave a pang sharp as a dag- 
ger’s thrust to the sensitive spirit of Lord Rutherford. 

11 * 


250 


THE earl’s daughter. 


And it was no fancy : Blanche was unhappy — more unhappy' 
than she had been before from any but external causes. 
Eleanor’s last words — “ My mother’s happiness rests upon your 
decision” — were the first which occurred to her remembrance 
when she awoke after a restless and unrefreshing sleep. The 
thoughts that accompanied them — harassing and confusing — 
made her long to lay her head again upon her pillow, and 
forget. Pain and disappointment came, with the recollection of 
Eleanor’s conduct — shame, at the consciousness of having been 
made privy to a secret in w^hich there was so much to disap- 
j)rove ; and, above all, a distracting doubt when the question 
arose as to her own determination. For there was much to be 
said — she could not help acknowledging it when she tried to 
think upon the subject dispassionately — there was much to be 
alleged, at least, in excuse for Eleanor’s wishes. To prevent a 
great evil — to save her brother from a rash step, which he might 
regret for life — and to spare Mrs. Wentworth a trial, the effects 
of which no one could foresee — were reasons quite sufficient to 
account for the earnestness with which Eleanor pursued a 
request that, under other circumstances, she would herself have 
been one of the first to condemn. No one had in general 
higher views than Eleanor, of the awfulness and importance of 
a clergyman’s duty ; or of the lasting evil which arises from any 
carelessness in the bestowal of Church Patronage. Blanche 
had heard her speak almost uncharitably of an instance of indif- 
ference upon this point which had come under their own notice. 
She had herself taken in a degree the part of the accused, and 
suggested extenuations which Eleanor could not be induced to 
accept. 

It might, therefore, naturally be supposed that, in the present 
instance, Eleanor saw reasons sufficient to satisfy her that she 
was not doing wrong in supporting her brother’s wishes. 
Blanche, indeed, did not comprehend them. Mr. Wentworth 
to her appeared very unfitted to take orders. He gave her the 
idea of a vain, unsteady, though clever and agreeable, person. 
But Eleanor said he was much better than he appeared ; and 
who could be so good a judge as a sister ? Then, again, she 
was not called upon to decide the question of fitness. Dr. 
Wentworth — a very excellent, sensible person — did not object 
to his son’s being a clergyman. Mrs. Wentworth, of whose 
goodness there could be no possible doubt, encouraged the 
notion. Why was Blanche to put her judgment against theirs, 
and refuse to do a kindness, because the individual who asked 


THE earl’s daughter. 


251 


it had, unfortunately, fallen in love, and engaged himself to a 
person not likely to make a good clergyman’s wife. It seemed 
— really it seemed upon consideration — that she might, at least, 
please Eleanor by asking the favour of her father ; and that the 
responsibility of the decision might be left in his hands. If the 
petition were granted, the gift would be Lord Rutherford’s, not 
hers ; if it were denied, no blame of unkindness could attach 
to her ; and, whatever consequences might arise from the impa- 
tience and imprudence of Mr. Wentworth and Adelaide, she 
would have done all that lay in her power to prevent them. So 
Blanche reasoned with herself at one moment ; so she almost 
persuaded herself to remove the weight upon her mind, by 
speaking to her father on the first opportunity. But she was 
standing by her dressing-table, putting round her neck the 
chain and locket which Mrs. Howard had given her. Her eye 
fell upon the date inscribed upon the locket — the date of her 
confirmation. How many, many thoughts were suggested by 
it !— thoughts of holiness and purity, and that single eye to the 
glory of God which can alone assist us to a right determination. 
Again, Blanche knelt in thought at the Cathedral altar, and 
renewed the vow of her baptism ; again, she seemed to listen to 
the warning against even the “ appearance of evil and to 
recall the intensity of purpose with which she had sealed the 
public profession of her devotion, by the secret vow which, in that 
glorious temple and that awful Presence, appeared doubly sacred 
and binding. She had been told, then, that no action could be 
safe that appeared doubtful when she thought of the Judgment : 
her present difficulty could be tried by that test. When the 
account of all things done in the flesh should be rendered 
before God, how would she feel if she yielded to the present 
temptation ? Before that dread Tribunal would meet the rich 
and the poor — the learned and the ignorant--the giver and the 
receiver ; there, the true consequences of every action would be 
fully seen ; and there, the curse of the hundreds who might 
be ruined by the evil example of an indifferent or negligent 
clergyman would fall, also, upon her head. No kindness or 
atiection for individuals would, in that day, plead her excuse. 
If she wilfully and knowingly aided in confiding such a solemn 
trust to a person whom she had reason to believe unfitted for it, 
she could not be held guiltless of the result. 

Thoughts like these were easily encouraged and treasured up 
in solitude, and, when Blanche left her room, her determination 
was so fixed that she was comparatively at peace. She wished 


252 


THE earl’s daughter. 


that Eleanor had come to her earlier, so as to be assured that 
any further hopes were vain ; but Eleanor delayed, and Blanche 
dreaded seeing her, and when they met accidentally, as Miss 
Grey had noticed, Eleanor’s countenance and manner gave her 
a pang which she could scarcely bear ; and, in an instant, all 
the former suggestions and doubts returned. 

To a person in perfect health this state of indecision would 
have been very trying ; but, to Blanche, never very strong, and 
at that time suffering from serious indisposition, it was crushing. 
She sat in her father’s room, with a book resting upon her 
knees, scarcely able to appear to read, and finding it difficult 
even to reply to common questions ; whilst pondering over and 
over the arguments for and against her decision ; and even, 
whilst feeling herself right, not able to rest satisfied without 
reviewing her reasons, repeating all that could be said on the 
opposite side of the question, and tormenting herself with 
imagining all the possible consequences of her refusal, and the 
responsibility it seemed she was incurring. 

Lord Rutherford tried in many ways to engage her attention. 
He showed her his letters, consulted her upon some improve- 
ments which were to be made at Rutherford, and, at length, 
finding every attempt fail, sank back in his chair with a 
heavy sigh and a face which showed uneasiness of no ordinary 
nature. 

You are going out this afternoon, are you not, papa ?” said 
Blanche, aroused, at length, to a consciousness that his change 
of manner was caused by her. 

“ Yes, I thought 1 should ; but I don’t know now. I can’t 
go with all that party.” 

“ You will not stay in for me,” said Blanche, affectionately. 
‘‘ I should be quite vexed if you were to do so.” 

“ There is no pleasure in going out without you and Lord 
Rutherford left hk seat, and walked slowly up and down the 
room. Blanche cast her eyes again upon her book ; for she 
felt perplexed, as if she did not know what to say even to him, 
and in a moment the current of her thoughts had returned to 
its former channel. When she looked up again, after several 
minutes, her father was standing by the fire, resting one arm 
upon the mantelpiece, and watching her narrowly. She could 
not bear this, and tried again to enter into conversation. 

“ You will go out to please me,” she said, with an effort to 
speak lightly. 

He did not smile or make any answer in return for a few 


THE earl’s daughter. 


253 


moments, but then he exclaimed suddenly, “ Your aunt was 
wrong in urging me to bring you here. Rutherford was your 
best home.” 

“ It was my happiest home,” said Blanche, quietly. “ I was 
more useful there.” 

The earl started, as if a new idea had been suggested to 
him. “ Yes, occupation : of course, occupation,” he muimured 
to himself; then again, recurring to the former subject, he 
repeated, “ Rutherford was your best home ; we will go back 
there.” 

“ May we ? shall we ?” replied Blanche. Her eyes bright- 
ened with pleasure, for in leaving Senilhurst she thought she 
should leave temptation and trial. 

“ Do you wish it ?” said the earl, eagerly, almost hastily. 
“ You should have told me before.” 

“ It is not a fixed wish ; only at times,” said Blanche ; “ but 
I should like to feel that I could be doing something. There 
is nothing but amusement here, except, just now, the little 
boy at the lodge ; that is the only thing I seem to have par- 
ticularly to attend to. I should like to see the toys that were 
bought for him.” 

“ How could I have forgotten !” exclaimed the earl, ringing 
the bell violently. That one shght allusion to a wish was a 
command. He threw all his energy, in an instant, into the 
subject, ordered the parcel to be brought, and drawing Blanche’s 
chair to the table, knelt on one knee beside her, with his arm 
round her waist, and spread the little toys before her and 
discussed which it would be best to give, with an earnestness 
most touching, yet most sad, for it was the earnestness of 
idolatry. 

Blanche’s thoughts were a little diverted for the moment. 
She was particularly fond of children, and the little fellow in 
whom she now interested herself was singularly engaging. 
She had seen him several times since the first day of his serious 
illness ; as often, indeed, as the weather and her own health 
would permit : — for the lodge was within a short walking 
distance, and she could often go there when she was not able 
to attempt anything beyond. She thought him very ill her- 
self; though the parents would not allow it, and even the 
medical man spoke sanguinely of his ultimate recovery : and 
with this idea, she exerted herself for him more than perhaps 
was always prudent. 

In a place where there was so httle opportunity for per- 


254 


THE earl’s daughter. 


sonal exertion, this one case seemed to have a peculiar claim 
upon her. 

But Lord Rutherford was not inclined, on that day, to think 
of prudence. As soon as he saw that Blanche could smile and 
take pleasure in consulting for the child’s amusement, his 
whole heart was bent upon gratifying her fancy to the utmost ; 
and, notwithstanding Lady Charlton’s ' entreaties, he persisted 
in the idea of driving her to the lodge, after luncheon, instead 
of riding, as he had intended. 

This gleam of sunshine, however, was but transitory. When 
the question of the toys was settled, Blanche returned to her 
book and her restless thoughts, and Lord Rutherford to his 
watchfulness and foreboding. The luncheon-bell rang, and 
Blanche proposed to join the rest of the party. “ It was 
making less fuss,” she said, “ and she need not stay long.” 

The earl was relieved at the suggestion : anything was better 
for her than sitting alone ; anything was preferable for himself than 
to witness even the faintest possible shadow of that melancholy 
love of solitude which had been her mother’s characteristic. 

The dining-room was filled when they went in. Miss Grey, 
dressed in her riding-habit, was acting extreme surprise and 
disappointment at the breaking up of the afternoon’s engage- 
ment, and looking wistfully at Lord Erlsmere for sympathy, 
which he did not appear inclined to give, his attention being 
engaged by a chance visitor, who was believed to have consider- 
able parliamentary influence. 

Blanche, however, had neither care nor thought for any one 
except Eleanor. She did not see her at first, for they were on 
the same side of the table and far apart ; and, after a little time, 
she began to feel faint and nervous, and repented having come 
into a crowded room. The talking and laughing that were 
going on around her made her head dizzy ; and it was an effort 
to her to try and catch Eleanor’s voice, and judge if she was 
really as wretched as she had looked in the morning. 

However, something was said, at length, which effectually 
aroused her from the dreamy state into which she was sinking 
It was a speech addressed to Lord Rutherford by Sir Hugh. 

“ My dear Rutherford, you will excuse me : I hope it is not 
intruding — not trespassing too much upon the rights of private 
patronage ; but, pray, what have you settled as to that great 
living of yours, Whitfield ?” 

The knife which Blanche held in her hand dropped from it, 
as she sat, motionless, to hear the answer. 


THE earl’s daughter. 


255 


“ Nothing.” 

Sir Hugh was a little daunted by its shortness ; especially as 
Lady Charlton, at the same instant, sent a lightning-glance of 
, caution across the table ; and, nearly as quick, a message, by a 
servant, to beg that Sir Hugh would tell Pearson where to find 
a curious collection of parliamentary tracts, for Lord Erlsmere 
and his friends to look at after luncheon. But Sir Hugh 
returned to the charge. “ It was a famous piece of patronage, 
— that living; one of the best in England. Some people con- 
sidered it the high-road to a bishopric, since two bishops had, 
within a few years, held it. Not that he was of that opinion ; 
he had made many observations upon the subject ; more, he 
suspected, than most people. He had kept lists of all the 
bishops made within his recollection, and traced out the causes 
of their election. It was not every one who could do so ; but, 
with his extensive acquaintance — his connection with the late 
premier — his — ” Sir Hugh had quite lost himself ; but he 
nodded his head, oracularly, and ended with — “ depend upon 
it, there is a good deal of mystery in the appointment of 
bishops.” 

Lord Erlsmere caught the last words, and turning to Sir 

Hugh, asked if he had heard that Dr. was certainly to 

have the next vacant seat on the Bench. 

Sir Hugh supposed and inferred, and thought it most 
probable, from his own private means of information ; and he had 
a great many, a very great many, as Lord Erlsmere must be 
aware ; but he was not then thinking about bishops, he was 
merely giving his opinion about the living of Whitfield, one 
of the largest livings in England. 

“ Oh yes, by-the-bye ;” and Lord Erlsmere innocently 
appealed to Lord Rutherford for information, not being aware 
that the decision was still uncertain, and that the earl disliked 
all curiosity upon what he deemed his private affairs. 

The answer was as unsatisfactory as before ; but it had not 
the effect of setting aside the subject, which was now fairly 
established. The value of the living, its claims, and its respon- 
sibilities, were all discussed ; not earnestly by any one but Lord 
Erlsmere ; yet the facts brought forward, of spiritual destitu- 
tion, ignorance, and crime, were very startling and dreadful to 
Blanche. She had never heard of such details before ; and, as 
she listened to them, it seemed that even Eleanor, with all her 
fondness for her brother, could scarcely put his interest in com- 
petition with the welfare of thousands. Unconsciously a sigh 


256 


THE earl’s daughter. 


escaped her ; it I’eached the quick eye of her father, and in an 
under-tone he asked if she was tired ; but she scarcely heard 
him, so intent was she upon a story, a horrible story, of suffer- 
ing and misery, which Lord Erlsmere was telling Lady 
Charlton. It was suffering from a clergyman’s neglect. In her 
eagerness Blanche leant forward, her eye caught Eleanor’s, and 
the next moment Eleanor pushed back her chair, and excusing 
herself to Lady Charlton, by saying that she did not feel well, 
left the room by herself. 

“ You shall not go with her,” said Maude Charlton, going 
behind Blanche’s chair ; as, with a face of anxiety, she was 
about to rise and follow. She laid her hand firmly upon 
Blanche’s shoulder and continued in a low voice, “ Trust me, she 
^ not really ill.” 

^ Blanche tried to free herself, but Maude still kept behind her, 
and addressing Lord Rutherford, begged him to carry Blanche 
away to his study. “ I shall take care of Miss Wentworth 
myself,” she added. . 

Blanche looked up with a feeling of irritation, and answered, 
almost haughtily, that it was her wish to go to Eleanor ; she 
did not mean to exert herself, but she must go. And Maude 
drew back coldly, and suffered her to pass from the room 
without another word. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

Eleanor was kneeling by her bed, her face bent down upon 
the coverlid ; an open letter lay on the ground ; and Blanche 
saw that it was from Mrs. Wentworth. 

“ Eleanor, dearest,” said Blanche, and she stooped down and 
kissed her ; and Eleanor rose, and pointing to the letter, 
answered with a bitter calmness, “ J udge what you are doing.” 

Blanche took up the letter ; her limbs trembled, and she sat 
down to read it, whilst Eleanor stood by, watching the changes 
that passed over her face. 

The bold legible handwriting was the transcript of Mrs. 
Wentworth’s mind : yet lines of weakness and suffering might 
be traced in it ; for it was the outpouring of a mother’s uneasi- 
ness. The letter had been written upon the day on which 
Charles had left the rectory for the avowed purpose of transact- 
ing business in London. What business no one knew, or could 


THE earl’s daughter. 


257 


understand ; no one at least at Rutherford. But it was possible 
that Eleanor was better informed, and her . mother wrote to 
request, even to entreat, that if she could throw any light upon 
her brother’s movements, she would,- in pity both to Dr. Went- 
worth and herself, do so without fail. 

“ It is not a mere wish to seek out all that Charles does and 
thinks,” wrote Mi-s. "Wentworth, “ which makes me ask. At 
his age there may be subjects upon which he may not wish to 
be open; though, strictly speaking, there ought to be none 
which a son should fear to confide to his mother; but I would 
not strain the point. Only, at such' a time, to have mysteries 
and concealments ! — it makes my heart sink. I fear lest we are 
mistaking him ; lest, after all his outward professions and his 
real improvement, there should not be that stability of character 
which is essential to the right performance of a clergyman’s 
duties. Feeling, I am quite sure he has — the very strongest ; 
but feeling will not carry him safely through the dangers of the 
world ; neither is it a sufficient guarantee for the performance 
of his ordination vows. I am very unhappy, perhaps cause- 
lessly. Your father does not view things in the same light. 
He says, we ought to be satisfied with Charles’ conduct of late ; 
for that he has done all that could possibly be required to 
prepare himself for a clergyman’s life ; and that he is certain of 
his conscientiousness. I would give worlds to feel the same ; 
but I recollect all that went on in the summer — that folly with 
Adelaide Charlton ; and I fancy that perhaps something of the 
same kind is in his thoughts now. God grant my fears may be 
groundless ! I scarcely know why I have them so strongly ; 
perhaps it is from the very fact of the misery the reality would 
cause me. It would be the destruction of the one day-dream 
which has cheered me amidst all the trials of my life. I have 
lived upon the hope of seeing Charles a clergyman, in heart as 
well as in profession. If this is not to be — if he is to be luke- 
warm or worldly — let him go ; let him choose the army, the 
law, a merchant’s office — anything, I shall never live to see the 
error of his ways, for my heart will break.” 

Blanche was about to refold the letter, but Eleanor turned to the 
other side, and pointed to the postscript, written by Dr. Wentworth. 

“Your mother is not well ; which, I think, is one cause of 
her worrying herself so much about Charles. She had a slight 
attack, yesterday, of one of those fits which she was subject to 
years ago, at the time of poor Lady Rutherford’s death. I have 
had a long conversation with Mr. Dawson about her to-day, 


258 


THE earl’s daughter. 


and he assures me there is nothing to alarm us, but that she 
must be kept quiet. I only mention this in order that you 
may write cheerfully about Charles. As to his London busi- 
ness, no young man likes to be asked the reason of everything 
he does. I did not like it myself when I was his age, and I 
begged your mother to let it pass ; but she would question 
him, and then made herself wretched because he was annoyed 
and did not like to answer. We shall expect you both home 
together, the earliest day you can manage to come ; only give 
us notice beforehand. You will hear from Charles immediately, 
[ imagine.” 

When Blanche had finished, and given the letter back again 
into Eleanor’s hands, there was a silence of some moments. 
Each dreaded to say what was uppermost in her thoughts. 

“ You see,” said Eleanor, at length, with a forced quietness of 
manner ; “ I did not exaggerate.” 

“ There seems no cause for immediate alarm,” replied 
Blanche, feeling, as she spoke, that her words were cold. 

Eleanor remarked the tone directly, and exclaimed — “Oh, 
Blanche, can you be so changed ? is my mother’s health — her 
life — of no value to you ? Do you not know that it was sor- 
row for your mother, and anxiety and fatigue in nursing her, 
which first undermined her strength ?” 

Tears gathered in the eyes of Blanche, but she tried to check 
them, as she answered, “ I know you do not mean to be unkind, 
Eleanor. You would not willingly make me wretched. Try 
me in any other way ; tell me anything else that I can do.” 

“ Anything except the one thing ; the one only favour which 
will save my mother’s life,” exclaimed Eleanor. “Yes,” she 
continued, as Blanche shuddered and drew back, startled at the 
expression ; “ what I said last night is nothing to what I must 
say to-day. It is all hastening forward so rapidly : in another 
week it will be too late to interpose. I have heard from 
Charles myself ; he is in London ; he does not venture to let 
me know his plans ; but he writes in desperation. He will not 
see that mamma is unequal to bear any shock ; he believes that 
it is my fancy. His present life, he says, is wretchedness, and 
he knows but one way of extricating himself; that means,” and 
Eleanor’s voice shook, “ that he will marry Adelaide privately, 
and break my mother’s heart.” 

Blanche’s cheek became very pale, and she looked faint and 
exliausted ; but she said, firmly, “ Any sacrifice but that of 
conscience. Eleanor, you cannot ask that.” 


THE earl’s daughter. 259 

“ I know it ; I feel liow hard it is,” ^exclaimed Eleanor, 
changing her tone. “ When we were listening to what was 
said at luncheon, I felt certain of the effect upon your mind. 
But, Blanche, when Charles has done an act of which he will 
repent for his whole life; and when my father’s happiness is 
ruined, and my mother is — I dare not say what she may be — 
it is paralysis with which she is threatened : when all this has 
come, will it never cross your mind with regret, that one word 
of yours might have prevented it ? I speak my deliberate 
opinion,” she added. “ The last words of Charles’ letter are : 
‘ Give me but the hope of being able to come forward honoura- 
bly and openly, before another three months have passed over 
my head, and I will be contented to wait ; if not, delay is 
useless.’ ” 

Blanche leant her head upon her hand to hide her tears. 

“ My answer must go by to-day’s post,” said Eleanor. “ I 
have left my letter open, waiting for your final determination.” 

“It will not help you,” replied Blanche, in an accent of 
great suffering. 

“ Yes, indeed, indeed, it will,” exclaimed Eleanor. “ Pray 
do not think that ; it will, at the least, be delay, and a thou- 
sand things may happen in three months ; the engagement 
may be broken off. If it is not, still Charles will have taken 
orders, and my mother will be spared the shock I dread for 
her. Oh ! Blanche, what fearful evil you have it in your 
power to prevent !” 

A message from Lord Rutherford interrupted them. He 
had ordered the pony-chaise, and hoped that Lady Blanche 
would be ready to go with him in ten minutes’ time. Eleanor 
received the message, closed the door again, and bolted it ; and 
going up to Blanche, said, as she grasped her hand in the 
agony of entreaty, “Think only once more. If I do not write 
to-day, he will come down ; not here, but to the neighbour- 
hood. He will see Adelaide, and it will be all over, for them 
and for me. Hot for my mother, but for myself I ask it. 

Blanche, it has been my own doing, and the consequences ,” 

her voice sank into a deep whisper, and Blanche caught only 
the words, “ Save me ; save me from them.” 

For a moment Blanche wavered. Eleanor pursued her ad- 
vantage ; but it was one step too far. “ Indeed you may trust 
me,” she said ; “ all that I have told you is truth. Only grant 
my request, and everything will be right. If nothing should 
break off the engagement, Charles will be quite open, and Sir 


260 


THE earl’s daughter. 


Hugh will support him. We know it ; we are quite certain of 
it,” she added eagerly. “ Pearson has told Adelaide’s maid, 
who is obliged to be a little in the secret, that Sir Hugh is de- 
voted to Charles.” 

Blanche started from her seat. It seemed as if a veil had 
been suddenly withdrawn from her eyes. “ I will leave the 
affair in their hands,” she said, with a cold quiet dignity. 
“ Thank you for letting me know who are your counsellors.” 
She walked to the door ; but her gentle nature was not proof 
against Eleanor’s look of despair, and once more returning to 
her, she said, “ Eleanor, you have tempted me very far ; almost 
to act against my conscience. I trust there is no one else who 
would have led me in the same way ; but let me tell you my 
true opinion of this business. You say that Adelaide’s maid is 
obliged to be in your secret. Pearson, of course, must suspect 
it. A gossiping girl and a fawning man-servant ! And you 
are forced to entrust to their discretion facts which would make 
your mother miserable, and my aunt indignant. A few months 
ago the very thought of such a thing would have disgusted you. 
I am sure it must disgust you now. I do not wish to hear how 
much or how little they know ; but, for myself, I would rather 
give up rank and wealth, and friends, and beg my bread in the 
streets, than suffer my name to be mixed up with a clandestine 
engagement, and my character for sincerity and delicacy, and 
all that one holds most dear, to be at the mercy of my ser- 
vants.” 

“ And if it is too late to retract ?” said Eleanor. 

Blanche paused. “ It cannot be too late to amend,” she said, 
after a moment’s consideration. ‘‘ I do not see how, now, and 
I have not time to think; but something must be possible.” 

Eleanor shook her head. “ One way there is : grant my 
request, and you may impose your own conditions.” 

She was not answered. Blanche turned away as from a 
temptation which she dared not encounter again. 


CHAPTER XLHI. 

If Lord Rutherford had seen cause for anxiety in the morn- 
ing, when Blanche sat alone with him in his study, he could 
scarcely be more satisfied when she came to him prepared for 
her drive. The change even in that short time was painful : 


THE earl’s daughter. 


261 


she looked quite haggard ; her eyes bore the traces of tears, 
and her whole manner was that of a person bowed down by a 
weight of care. The earl could not delude himself any longer 
by thinking that she was merely languid and uncomfortable 
from not being well ; a much deeper cause there must be, he 
was certain, for such strange depression. Or was there no cause ? 
— nothing but indefinable wretchedness — the precursor of more 
lasting misery ? — and swiftly, in a moment, his thoughts travel- 
led back through the long lapse of years, whilst striving to 
remember the fir^ indication which had struck him of his wife’s 
morbid temperament. His thoughts made him silent during 
the short drive ; and Blanche was only too willing not to be 
obliged to exert herself. She was sorry when they stopped at 
the lodge, for the fresh air was reviving ; but the afternoons 
closed in quickly, and she had but a short time allowed her. 
Lord Rutherford followed her into the cottage. It was strangely 
natural to him now to be there'; he who had once never entered 
the house, even of one of his own labourers, except when busi- 
ness made it necessary, was now a recognised and welcome 
guest in the sanded kitchen, where, stretched upon a low pallet, 
lay the sick child, his pale face flushed with pleasure, and his little 
thin hand stretched out to welcome the lady whom he had not 
seen for many days. The earl seated himself by the fire ; when 
Blanche was present he had no wish except to watch her, and 
listen to her, and yield himself to an influence so different from 
all which for years had governed him, that it seemed to present 
to him a new phase of existence. Yet it was not very much 
that Blanche said. She was shy before her father, and the dis- 
quietude of her mind gave her a tone of unusual reserve. But 
the child was not aware of any difference of manner ; he only 
knew that some one was near him who was kind to him, and 
had brought him toys to play with, and pictures ; and, with the 
simplicity and openness of his age, he made his remarks, and 
called for her attention, until insensibly Blanche’s interest was 
absorbed, and she forgot that there was any other care or duty 
to be thought of. Then she talked freely and cheerfully, and 
the boy grew more and more happy to have her with him ; and 
discovering, by a natural instinct, where his wondering and 
childish, yet reverent, thoughts would meet with sympathy, 
asked questions which if, at times, they were hard to answer, 
yet betokened a mind strangely beyond his years. The pictures, 
he told her, he liked so much — the Scri})ture ones — those which 
were about people being made well ; and, raising his eyes to 


262 


THE earl’s daughter. 


Blanche, with an expression of great awe, he said, as he laid his 
finger upon a figure representing our Lord, “ It must have been 
so pleasant to be with Him ; He looks so kind.” Blanche tried 
to give him a personal feeling of gratitude by speaking of the 
blessings which had been granted to himself. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ there were a great many. His mother was 
good to him, and his sister ; and they made his bed comfortable 
when he was tired : but he knew it was our Saviour who taught 
them to do it. And he makes you come and see me,” he 
added. “ Do you like to come ?” 

Blanche could scarcely repress a smile at the eagerness with 
which the question was put ; as if a sudden doubt had crossed 
his mind. 

“ I like it, and the gentleman likes it too,” she said, looking 
towards her father. “ It was he who went to Cobham to buy 
the toys for you.” 

The child fixed his eyes upon Lord Rutherford, with a half- 
timid gratitude which he dared not speak ; and the look drew 
the earl from his seat by the fire, and he went to the bed-side. 

“ Thank you !” said the child, fancying that he had come to 
be thanked. Sissy and I shall play with them by-and-by ; 
and I must say, ‘ Thank you,’ to our Saviour too ; mustn’t I ?” 
he added, appealing to Blanche, “ because He told him to do 
it ; like your coming to see me.” Then taking up one of the 
prints, he held it before the earl, asking whether he would not 
like to see it — ^it was so pretty. “ That is a little boy saying 
his prayers,” he continued. “ I say my prayers too, when I 
can ; when I am very tired. Sissy says them for me. Do you 
think you could say them for me ?” 

“ I dare say the gentleman could, if he knew what to say,” 
interrupted Blanche quickly : “ or I might, if you liked it. But, 
I suppose. Sissy says your prayers for you at night before you 
go to bed ?” 

“ But I should like to have them said now. I should like to 
have you to say them and the wish having once suggested 
itself, the child grew quite excited, his cheek flushed, and his 
breathing became quick. “ You would say them better than 
Sissy ; and sometimes she looks about ; I don’t like her to look 
about.” 

“People should be quite still and keep their eyes shut, or 
else look down upon their books, when they say their prayers,” 
said Blanche. “ I dare say Sissy will when she grows older. 
Does she ever read to you ?” 


THE earl’s daughter. 


263 


“ Yes, sometimes ; but mother reads at night, about the 
beautiful city. That’s where the clergyman says I’m going. 
Should you like to hear about it, if the lady reads it ?” he added, 
turning to Lord Rutherford. 

“ The lady is tired,” answered the earl ; “ don’t you see how 
white she is ?” 

The little boy gazed at Blanche steadily, and after a few 
moments of thought said, with a very earnest voice, “She 
looks like me when mother puts the glass before me. Is she 
going to the beautiful city, too ?” 

Lord Rutherford’s countenance changed. He caught up 
Blanche’s cloak from a chair, and wrapping it round her 
observed that they must go. 

“ Then you can’t say my prayers for me to-day ?” asked the 
child with a disappointed air. 

Blanche looked at her father entreatingly. “ If he wishes it 
so much,” she said, “ might I not stay five minutes ? His little 
prayer can scarcely take so long. What is it you say, 
Johnnie ?” 

“ ‘ Our father !’ and ‘ I pray God to bless mother and Sissy 
and the clergyman taught me another,” answered the child. 

“ And if I were to say ‘ Our Father !’ for you, should you 
like it ?” 

The little pale face brightened with pleasure, and Blanche, 
after one glance at the earl, who was standing passively waiting 
her will, knelt down. There was a moment’s pause ; and the 
child, touching Blanche’s arm, asked, “ Doesn’t the gentleman 
say his prayers too ?” 

Blanche made no answer, she repeated the prayer. The little 
boy joining in it with his hands clasped and his eyes closed. 
When it was ended, and she rose up. Lord Rutherford was 
kneeling by her side, his head still bowed in the attitude of 
devotion. 

“ And now, good b’ye,” said Blanche, gathering her cloak 
around her and preparing to go. 

The child kept her hand, “ Thank you for saying the prayer, 
and next time you will read about the beautiful city, where I’m 
going ; wont you ?” 

Blanche kissed his forehead, and as a smile passed over his 
features, he whispered, “ I hope you will come soon, for I know 
you will be happier.” They were his parting words. Lord 
Rutherford hurried Blanche into the pony-carriage, and seizing 
the reins drove rapidly homewards. 


264 


THE earl’s daughter. 


Maude met them at the hall-door, fretted apparently, and full 
of business. Scarcely noticing Blanche, she said to the earl, 
“ Mr. Johnstone has been here, waiting for the last quarter of an 
hour ; he says he must see you before the post goes out, if 

looked anxiously at Blanche. “ Take care of her,” 
he said to Maude. “ I have been very foolish — mad, I believe, 
— keeping her out so late, till she is half-dead. Mr. Johnstone 
wants me, did you say? Oh! yes, I remember, about the 
Whitfield living.” 

He was going, but Blanche’s voice stopped him. “Papa, 
may I ask ? what did you say ?” and in an instant the colour 
had mounted to her cheeks, though only again to leave them of 
a more deadly hue. 

“ The living of Whitfield, my child ; that is all : nothing to 
disturb you. Mr. Johnstone has made application for a friend.” 

“ A friend 1 what friend — a good one ?” said Blanche, 
hurriedly. 

“ A good one, of course. Mr. Johnstone, every one says, is 
to be depended on. But, my dear love, you are quite excited : 
do you want the living for yourself ?” 

Blanche laughed faintly : her knees trembled very much, and 
she sat down on one of the hall-chairs. Maude scarcely assisted 
her. A sudden gravity had gathered upon her face, and she 
folded her hands, awaiting what was next to be done. 

“ We must have your maid, my love,” said the earl. “ She 
must take cai:e of you, and you must lie down and rest. I will 
ring for her ; and then I must go to Mr. Johnstone.” 

Blanche still detained him. Would he let her know — if it 
was not wrong — if she might be told — would it all be settled 
to-day about the living ? 

A strong warning grasp was laid upon her arm, as Maude, 
stooping down under pretence of picking up her glove, said, 
in an under voice, “ So miserably weak 1 — oh ! Blanche 1” 

Blanche started ; her eye caught her father’s full of strange 
sadness. She felt quite bewildered. What did he mean ? and 
what did Maude mean? Was she doing anything wrong? 
Were they vexed with her? Did they know her secret ? She 
was so tired, so ill, so worn, that all her natural strength of 
mind gave way, and she burst into tears. 

Maude’s manner softened a little ; but the earl spoke sternly ; 
so it might have been called, but for an involuntary quivering of 
his lip. He wished her to go to his study, he said ; it was quite 



THE earl’s daughter. 


265 


close, and it would be the best place for her, and Maude might 
beg Mr. Johnstone to wait. There was time ; if there was not, 
he could not come to him ; he must wait. 

Maude lingered for a moment, apparently seeking for one 
more word with Blanche ; but Lord Rutherford gave her no 
opportunity for it, and, opening the study door, led Blanche 
into the room, and said, with the quietness of great self-control, 
“ Blanche, my child, we are alone ; now, you will be open with 
me. There is something amiss. K it is a wish ungratified, 
you have only to speak.” 

Blanche could not answer him. 

Eleanor’s despairing tones of entreaty were again sounding in 
her ears ; and weak though it was to waver, it was agony to 
resist. 

The earl waited in silence for a few seconds, his countenance 
showing more and more plainly the distress of his mind. “ You 
cannot fear I shall refuse,” he said at length, almost reproach- 
fully. “ Is it in my power now ? Will it be so hereafter ? Can 
money purchase it, or time, or influence, or exertion ? Only, in 
pity, tell me !” 

Blanche shook her head; she tried to find words for an 
answer — anything to satisfy him ; but it seemed impossible. 

The earl withdrew himself from her, and stood moodily by the 
fire. 

“I do not doubt, indeed, papa, that you would give me 
everything,” said Blanche, forcing herself at last to speak. 

“ Then why may I not be told ?” he exclaimed, quickly. “ If 
it is a request — ” 

“ But it is not ; I have nothing to ask ; only, if I knew what 
was right ; if I could be quite — quite sure.” 

Lord Rutherford’s impetuous manner was subdued ; but 
there was far greater sadness in his tone than before, as seating 
himself on the sofa beside her, and drawing her towards him, 
he said, “ My poor, poor child ; is there no peace on earth, then, 
even for you ?” 

“ If I could be quite sure — quite certain,” repeated Blanche. 

“ And is that all ? Is it nothing definite ?” asked the ea:l. 
He waited breathlessly for the answer, and at that moment to 
have been told that Blanche was sufiering under the burthen of 
some overpowering calamity would have been a relief from the 
foreboding which made his heart sicken with dread. But again 
there was no rest for his fears ; for a few moments of recollection 
had brought to Blanche the remembrance that she had no right 

12 


266 


THE earl’s daughter. 


to /iwaken suspicions whicli might eventually betray the secrets 
of others, and she was silent. 

Lady Charlton’s knock was just then heard at the door. 
“ Mr. Johnstone,” she said, “ was becoming uneasy,” and she 
begged Lord Rutherford not to delay seeing him. 

As she spoke she glanced at Blanche in surprise and some 
curiosity ; but the earl scarcely heeded her. His whole thought 
was centred in Blanche; and, as soon as the door was again 
closed, he said, “ Then there is something — a wish — a want un- 
fulfilled; or is it disappointment? You spoke of it once; you 
said that the world was dreary. Oh ! Blanche, is it through 
me that it is so ? — through my fault ? God knows it may be 
my penalty.” 

“ Papa ! papa !” exclaimed Blanche ; “ pray do not speak so 
or think so ; it is not through you ; I could not be so ungrateful.” 

“ But you may be afraid ; your wish may seem a difficult one 
to grant,” continued the earl, “ yet solemnly and sincerely, I 
would repeat what before you may have thought to be mere 
words. As the one only atonement which I can make for the 
misery of your unhappy mother, ask what you will, and if it is 
in the power of human effort to obtain it, it shall be yours.” 

Blanche threw her arm around his neck, and answered, “ I 
want nothing.” 

Again they were interrupted. The door was hastily opened 
by Eleanor Wentworth. Agitation and excitement were visible 
in her countenance, but she apologized calmly. She had 
understood Blanche was* by herself, and she was wishing' to 
speak with her. 

Lord Rutherford was leaving the room, but he returned to 
give a parting kiss to Blanche, and whisper, “ Remember you 
have only to ask.” 

He was gone, and Eleanor and Blanche w'ere alone. 
.Eleanor’s errand was quickly told. This was her last effort — 
hei last moment of hope. Blanche listened again to her 
iDrmer arguments, her reiterated miserable entreaties. They 
’.yere more plausible, more urgent than ever. “ Ten minutes 
more — only ten,” she said, pointing to the timepiece, “ and it 
will be useless to ask. Mr. Johnstone is certain to carry his 
point ; he is to write by this day’s post. Lady Charlton sup- 
ports him. Lord Rutherford is already inclined to listen to 
him. Ih remembrance of all our happiness, and our love which 
was to last for ever, Blanche, have pity on me.” 

Blanche was lying on the sofa, without the power of argu- 


THE earl’s daughter. 


267 


ment, but she had strength to say, “ Leave me and return in 
five minutes and Eleanor, seeing a ray of hope in this 
apparent yielding, left her. 

They were five minutes of intense wretchedness; Blanche 
was not able to compose her mind sufficiently for thought, the 
consequences of her decision crowded .upon her. Misery for 
Eleanor — despair for Mrs. Wentworth — recklessness and folly 
for Adelaide and Charles. Even the ticking of the clock was 
distracting, and in the greatness of her distress, she threw 
herself upon her knees and prayed for certainty. God answers 
our prayers, but not as we expect. 

Eleanor re-opened the door, and Blanche started up ; but, 
before a question could be asked, Lord Rutherford returned, 
accompanied by Mr. Johnstone. A number of letters were 
in his hand, which he threw upon the table, with an exclama- 
tion of fear, lest they should not be sealed in time for the post. 

Eleanor stopped as she was hurrying away, and asked if she 
could be of any assistance ? Certainly, if she would be kind 
enough, it would be a great help ; and Lord Rutherford 
lighted the taper, put his seal into her hand, and then, relieved 
from a tiresome task, turned to Blanche and said, “ I could 
scarcely prevail upon Mr. Johnstone to come and see you, he 
was afraid of tiwng you ; but I insisted upon it. You kno 
his business ; he is a very able advocate, and I think I cannot 
do better than follow his opinion : still I have a fancy, — it has 
haunted me whilst we have been talking, — ^that you have some 
wish of your own in this affair. I have told him that if it is so, 
the decision must rest with you.” 

“ Is this letter to be sealed ?” asked Eleanor ; the direction 
was in Mr. Johnstone’s handwriting. 

Mr. Johnstone smiled. “ It is for Lady Blanche to 
determine,” he said, “ the letter is to my friend ; it contains the 
promise of the living. I could not have asked it for him 
if I had not known him to be fitted for it. Earnest, energetic, 
humble-minded, accustomed to the necessities of a large manu- 
facturing population. But there may be others as fitted, and I 
cannot believe that Lady Blanche would wish to incur the 
responsibility of entrusting such a charge to one who was not.” 

A pause followed ; Eleanor stooped d^own, and pushed a foot- 
stool towards Blanche, and whispered “ My mother.” 

“ Speak, my child,” said Lord Rutherford. “ Tell us if you 
have any wish, or feeling even upon this matter. Is there finy 
one whom you have ever desired to benefit ?” 


268 


THE earl’s daughter. 


Blanche’s heart beat so quickly that her breath was almost 
gone. Lord Rutherford looked alarmed, he rang the bell for 
some water. The servant was already at the door, he was 
come for the letters for the post ; Lord Rutherford put them 
into his hand, all but the one unsealed. Again he referred to 
Blanche, “ Shall I seal it ? Are you quite sure ?” 

Blanche waited for one moment only to gather strength for 
the effort, and then, with a firm voice, said, “ Yes, quite sure ; 
thank you for asking, but I have no wish to have a voice in the 
matter.” 

The letter was sealed and sent. Blanche talked quietly 
with Mr. Johnstone for a few minutes upon indifferent subjects, 
and then went to her room ; but no one, not even her father, 
saw her again that evening. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

It was a brilliant spectacle, when the long suite of rooms 
and the great hall at Senilhurst were lighted up in celebration 
of the seventeenth birthday of the Lady Blanche Evelyn. Many 
who saw it kept the remembrance of it as a scene to be described 
to their children, and their children’s children after them ; and 
some few, who knew the circumstances of that evening, and the 
events which followed, recurred to it with melancholy interest, 
to marvel at the mockery of human happiness and the 
strange contrariety that so often exists between the outward and 
the inward phases of this mortal life. 

Yes, it was a brilliant spectacle — with the dazzling lights 
shining amidst evergreen leaves, and the choicest flowers that 
art could force from nature, wreathing the glasses which reflected 
on all sides forms of elegance and beauty ; and exquisitely 
sweet were the strains of music that echoed through the lofty 
apartments, furnished by wealth and taste, with all that could 
minister to the enjoyment of the senses. 

The seventeenth birthday of Blanche Evelyn! they who 
looked upon her said that it could scarcely be. So childlike and 
simple she seemed, so unconscious of her own position, so 
easy and unreserved in manner, and not even shrinking from 
notice because she was unaware of attracting it. And they 
said also that she was happy ; that her laugh was the laugh of 
a light heart, that the flush upon her cheek was caused by gay 


THE earl’s daughter. 


269 


excitement, and that her occasional restlessness and eagerness 
were the natural impulses of a child upon her first introduction 
into society. And so she was watched and criticised, and 
mothers coveted her grace, and daughters" envied her beauty, 
and a few turned to mark an eye which was following her with 
proud delight, and shook their heads and sighed, that a father’s 
hopes should be centred in one whose veiy loveliness and purity 
were marked with the tokens of an early grave. 

Shall we look upon the truth ? There is a lesson to be learnt 
in the most delusive scenes of the world’s joyousness, as strik- 
ing, it may be, as in the closet or the church. 

The evening’s entertainment was just beginning. A few 
early guests had arrived, and, together with one or two of the 
visitors in the house, were assembled with Lady Charlton in the 
drawing-room. Conversation was rather dull ; it usually is so 
at the first opening. Lady Charlton found it difficult to avoid 
pauses, and heartily wished for further arrivals ; and the 
appearance of Mrs. Cuthbert Grey and her two daughters was 
hailed as a great acquisition. 

Mrs. Cuthbert Grey looked particularly young in her evening 
dress ; it was not easy to believe that she could be the mother 
of two tall girls; and the consciousness of this gave her a 
certain vivacity of manner which was just then particularly 
needed. 

“ It is quite pleasant to see you here,” began Lady Charlton, 
addressing her ; “ I thought this afternoon that we should lose 
you after all.” 

“ Not willingly,” was the reply ; “ you know where my incli- 
nations have led me from the first. Nothing but absolute 
necessity would have taken me home ; besides it would have 
been unkind to Adelaide. You are aware we have really deter- 
mined to carry her off with us to-night.” Lady Charlton did 
not dissent, in words at least ; and Mrs. Cuthbert Grey went 
on : “ It is a perfect charity to spare her, for Agnes and I are 
engaged to dine and sleep at Weston on Thursday ; and Caro- 
line would be left quite alone.” 

Lady Charlton seemed a little startled at this announcement ; 
but, before she had time to speak. Miss Caroline Grey inter- 
posed : “ You know, mamma, it is not absolutely certain I shall 
be alone ; those cousins of ours, from W ales, are coming almost 
immediately. They may come to-morrow, there is only a pos- 
sibility of my being alone.” 

‘‘ Still it is a possibility one should be glad to escape, my 


270 


THE earl’s daughter. 


dear; and Lady Charlton is very kind in sparing Adelaide. 
Indeed, I cannot say how obliged I am.” 

Miss Caroline Grey paid but little attention to her mother’s 
remark. She was seized with a sudden interest in Lady 
Blanche, and a desire to learn who had seen her lately, and if 
it was quite certain that she would be well enough to appear 
that evening. The mention of Blanche’s name caused a general 
interest, and Lady Charlton was only too pleased to be called 
upon to answer the many inquiries as to what had been the mat- 
ter ; whether she was strong, whether the air of Senilhurst agreed 
with her, and if she was likely to remain during the winter. 

Her niece had been ill, she said. She had indeed made them 
all a little anxious ; but she had improved very much since the 
preceding day, and had insisted upon joining the party that 
evening. “ She is not to dance much, or exert herself,” added 
Lady Charlton, turning to Mrs. Cuthbert Grey. “ Her doctor 
gave special orders upon that point ; in fact I suspect if he had 
had his will, she would have kept to her room, but she had set 
her heart upon being present. Poor child ! very natural at her 
age ; her first ball and in her own honour ! and she would not 
hear of its being postponed.” 

Lord Erlsmere here joined the party, and remarked that he 
had just met Lady Blanche going to her father’s study. He was 
quite struck with her, he said, she had such an unusual colour, 
and looked so much better than when he last saw her. 

Lady Charlton was engaged with some more guests, and Mrs. 
Cuthbert Grey whispered to Lord Erlsmere, “ Ah yes ! poor 
thing ! excitement, all excitement ; the earl sees it quite plainly. 
He has been wretched about her the last two days. You know 
how she has shut herself up, and now she comes out quite well, 
as it seems ; just like her mother. She had all those fancies. 
You never could depend upon her spirits from one hour to 
another.” 

Lord Erlsmere looked very grave ; it was so sad a prospect, 
he said, for such a lovely young creature ; and when he was 
with her he could never believe it possible. Her mind seemed 
BO peculiarly well-disciplined, her temper so equable. 

“ Oh ! but they are not symptoms to be depended on,” con- 
tinued Mrs. Cuthbert Grey. “ I could tell you things : Agnes, 
my love, what was it you were saying to me about poor Lady 
Blanche, just now ?” 

“ Oh ! nothing, mamma, nothing ; really I did not mean to 
mention it to any one, except yourself ; but it was strange.” 


THE earl’s daughter. 271 

Lord Erlsmere could not avoid a little curiosity. 

“ It was what her maid said,” began Mrs. Cuthbert Grey. 

“ Oh ! yes, yes, mamma,” interrupted Miss Grey, hastily. 
“ But it is not fair to repeat such things to Lord Erlsmere ; only 
her maid is a great gossip, and told our maid that Lady Blanche 
had cried incessantly for the last two days, and that she 
thought there was some fuss between her and Miss Wentworth ; 
for that Miss Wentworth had not been near her ! Poor thing I 
I dare say she is a little wayward.” 

“ And to-night you see she has shaken it all off, and comes 
forward as if nothing was amiss,” said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey. 
“ Well ! one can only feel for her; but I am glad I am not 
Lord Rutherford.” 

Miss Grey touched her mother’s arm. 

Lord Rutherford had just come into the room, and was asking 
if any one had seen Blanche. His entrance attracted notice, 
but he was not aware of it. To one or two persons he bowed 
distantly and mechanically, but his eye wandered anxiously 
around ; and a moment afterwards he was gone — to his study 
— there Blanche was waiting for him. 

A father’s love is blind ; yet Lord Rutherford might well 
have been pardoned if, as he looked upon Blanche dressed for 
that evening’s entertainment, he deemed her faultless. In her 
simple white dress, almost without ornament, she might have 
moved amongst the loveliest and the most splendidly attired 
of her rank and age ; and in her exquisite grace, her perfect 
unconsciousness of beauty, have outshone them all. The earl 
could not praise ; he could not even say that he was satisfied. 
Admiration was not the idea which presented itself in looking 
upon Blanche. But he- imprinted a kiss upon her forehead, 
and blessed her ; and the blessing brought a thrill of untold 
delight to Blanche’s heart. 

“ It is so good of you, my child,” he said, “ to wait for me. 
I thought I should have tired you, and that you would go to 
the drawing-room without me; but I was kept. Sir Hugh 
took a fancy, an hour ago, about some of the arrangements, and 
would interfere ; and your aunt was quite fi’etted with him. 
So, in pity to her, I carried him off to the library to discuss an 
old quotation. So immensely absurd he is ! But you are not 
doing too much, I trust ; you look better to-night — a great deal 
better, I think.” 

Blanche said she did feel more equal to the effort than she 


272 THE earl’s daughter. 

had done all day ; and her father did not remark that she 
avoided saying she was better. 

“ There are a good many arrivals,” continued the earl. “ I 
looked into the drawing-room a few minutes ago — your aunt 
seemed quite in her element. I don’t know any person who 
manages a thing of this kind better than she does. But they 
are all expecting you, Blanche.” 

“ Must we go just this minute ?” she asked. “ It is very 
quiet and comfortable here.” 

He regarded her with a slight uneasiness. “ You are tired, 
my love, already. It is too much for you, I believe, after all.” 

“ No, no,” and Blanche roused herself from the languor 
which was stealing over her. “ I shall do quite well, indeed ; 
but I thought there was no hurry, and I wanted to stay just for 
a few moments ; I was hoping to hear — ” 

“ What ? — anything I can ask for you ? — anything I can 
inquire ? — let me go.” 

“ Oh ! no,” said Blanche, with a half smile ; “ but I sent 
just now a message to the lodge. Little Johnnie is taken 
worse, and I had a great wish to know” — tears started to her 
eyes, but she added cheerfully, “ one can’t help being interested 
about him.” 

Lord Rutherford made no reply ; but he drew an arm-chair 
towards her, and Blanche sat down by the fire, and fixed her 
eyes upon the bright flames, and the strange caverns, and 
hollows, and precipices of the glowing coals. There was silence 
for several minutes. Once or twice Blanche looked round, 
thinking the door was opened ; but no one came. 

“ I hear music,” said the earl, at length ; “ they are impa- 
tient to dance. Are you sure your message was taken to the 
lodge?’’ 

“ Barnes promised me she would send some one directly,” 
replied Blanche ; “ but it does not signify ; I can go and she 
was about to rise. 

“We can wait,” said the earl; “only” — ^he took out his 
watch — “ I think we really must go ; it will look so strange.” 

Some one came to the door and tapped gently. 

Lord Rutherford uttered an impatient “ Come in but it 
was not a servant that answered him — it was Maude ; very 
grave — very stiff and cold ; and dressed in a manner but little 
in accordance with the gaiety of the evening. 

“ They are wondering what is become of you, Blanche.” she 


THE earl’s daughter. 


273 


said. “ Mamma sent me to find you. She had a fancy that 
you were not well. But you are well — very well, I declare, 
after all. Quite a colour there is in your cheeks ; or is,it only 
that you have been burning yourself over the fire ?” 

There was a colour in Blanche’s cheek, for it was crimsoned 
with the conflicting feelings excited by Maude’s accent of 
sarcasm. 

“We were just saying that it would not do to stay here any 
longer,” said Lord Rutherford ; “ but Blanche had a fancy, to 
wait till she could hear about a message which she sent to the 
lodge to inquire after the little boy.” 

“ They can bring it to her in the drawing-room,” said Maude; 
“ there is no use in waiting here, and the dancing cannot begin 
without Blanche.” 

“ No, no ; thank you,” exclaimed Blanche, and she rose 
immediately. “ I would much rather not have it brought ; it 
does not signify ; at least I would rather not hear. Indeed, I 
would rather not,” she repeated, as Lord Rutherford was going 
to ring the bell. 

Maude stood by coldly, merely saying, that every one was 
expecting Blanche ; it was her own evening. 

“ Yes ; I ought to have been in the room. It was wrong of 
me to wait,” said Blanche. “ Papa, I am quite ready.” 

She trembled as she stood up ; and he observed it, and laying 
his hand upon her’s, said fondly, “ You are nervous, my child ; 
but you will not care after the first moment.” 

Blanche smiled, and opened the door. A full burst of music 
sounded from the great hall ; a murmur of many voices — 
laughter and conversation. 

“ Stop ! here is your messenger, after all,” said the earl. 

A servant was coming hastily along the passage. 

“ May we go back to hear it ?” asked Blanche. She seemed 
really agitated now ; it was not mere nervousness. 

“ You have been to the lodge. Tell us quickly,” said the 
earl. “ Lady Blanche is anxious. How is the child ?” 

A little girl of about twelve years of age stepped forward 
from behind the servant, and came close up to Blanche. “ I 
was to tell myself,” she said. “ Johnnie said I was. He sent 
his love to my lady, and he’s gone — he’s gone to the beautiful 
city, and he begs her to come soon.” And bursting into tears, 
she sobbed as if her heart would break. 

“Come,” said Maude, drawing Blanche forwards. “Poor 
child ! we cannot help her.” Blanche stood still for an instant ; 

12 * 


2*74 


THE earl’s daughter. 


the light of a lamp fell full upon her features ; they were of a 
deadly paleness. “ Come,” again repeated Maude, authori- 
tatively. 

Blanche started, and turned to look for her father. He was 
leaning against the wall, at a little distance, with his arms 
folded. Blanche went up to him, and said gently, “ Papa, I 
am ready now but he did not answer, only he caught her 
hand, and holding it for an instant, looked wildly in her face ; 
and then dropping it suddenly, walked back to the study, and 
closed the door. Blanche made no remark ; she stooped to 
caress the poor little girl, who had thrown herself upon the 
floor in an agony of grief, and in a tone of quiet sympathy, 
spoke a few words of comfort, and gave an order that the ser- 
vant should take her back to the lodge, and said she hoped to 
see her mother the following day. Then addressing Maude, 
she added with perfect composure, “We had better not wait for 
papa,” and pntting her arm within her cousin’s, went with her 
to the drawing-room. 

Again there was a crimson flush upon Blanche’s cheek ; 
again her eyes shone brightly, and the silvery tones of her 
voice fell with cheerfulness upon the ear. The evening was 
wearing on. She had talked and danced, even laughed and 
sang. It was beautiful to watch her ; beautiful and inspiriting, 
except when occasionally a passing word seemed to jar upon 
some inward chord, and then for a moment a look of anguish 
flitted across her lovely face, and a mist seemed to gather over 
her eyes, and whether it were in the dance, or in conversation, 
a sudden vagueness and abstraction would come upon her, and 
she would pause, as if unknowing where she was, or what she 
was saying, till recalled by a gay reproof, or a glance at her 
father’s countenance. For Lord Rutherford was “ himself again 
whatever might have been the rush of foreboding excited by 
that untimely message from the bed of death, it was gone now ; 
charmed away by the spell of his child’s apparent enjoyment, and 
the proud happiness of beholding the admiration she inspired. 

“Lord Rutherford must be satisfied now,” said Lord Erls- 
mere to Mrs. Cuthbert Grey. He had been watching Blanche 
for some time ; longer than Mrs. Cuthbert Grey approved. 

“ Yes ; satisfied for to-night at least. But it is not real ; all 
that cheerfulness, I mean, which poor Lady Blanche puts on. 
She will suffer for it to-morrow.” 

“ So do many people suffer for a night’s excitement. There 
will be nothing to wonder at in that.” 


THE E A K L ’ S DAUGHTER. 


275 


“ Yes ; but even now it is forced — evidently forced. I have 
lived longer than you ; and I have seen more — of young ladies, 
at least. Look, now ; see what a change there is.” 

There was a change, certainly : a remarkable one. Blanche 
had been standing at the lower end of the room, talking to her 
partner. Now he had left her, and there were several people 
near her, but no one especially addressing her. Her face was 
turned away, but Mrs. Cuthbert Grey and Lord Erlsmere caught 
a side \dew. She had laid her hand upon some one, who was 
standing in front of her, and was speaking with an eager hag- 
gard look of entreaty, which seemed to have changed even the 
outline of her features. 

“ She is talking to Miss Wentworth,” said Lord Erlsmere. 
“ I fancied they had quarrelled.” 

, “ Yes ; quarrelled I suspect they have ; she is conscious of 
it probably, and trying to make it up. Those apparently very 
sweet tempers are not much to be depended on.” 

“ If Lady Blanche Evelyn’s temper is not sweet, I must dis- 
trust the evidence of my senses for the rest of my life,” said 
Lord Erlsmere, earnestly. 

Mrs. Cuthbert Grey smiled expressively. 

“ The quarrel is made up at any rate,” said Lord Erlsmere, 
as he saw Blanche rise and walk with Eleanor across the room. 

“ Or reserved for a more private explanation,” observed Mrs. 
Cuthbert Grey. “ Miss Wentworth is not, I suspect, to be won 
over so easily.” 

Lord Erlsmere did not pay much attention to this remark — 
liis interest was attracted by Eleanor and Blanche, and to Mrs. 
Cuthbert Grey’s discomfiture, he made some excuse for going 
away, and followed them through the door by which they had 
departed. It led into the hall. A few people were walking up 
and down, taking refreshments. Adelaide Charlton and Miss 
Caroline Grey amongst them. Eleanor and Blanche were pass- 
ing them just as Lord Erlsmere came into the hall. Adelaide 
tried to stop Blanche, and said something ludicrous, and 
Blanche’s face for a moment wore an expression of great annoy- 
ance; but she went on, and Adelaide and her companion 
laughed only the more heartily. Lord Erlsmere could not see 
more. A dance had just ended, and persons were crowding 
into the hall — some to refresh themselves, some to find part- 
ners, and Mrs. Cuthbert Grey to collect her party and prepare 
for an early departure. She laid siege to Lord Erlsmere again. 

It was growing very late, she said ; and they had a long 


276 


THE earl’s daughter. 


drive before them, and arrangements to make — packages, and 
boxes, and numberless things to collect ; it was such an unna- 
tural undertaking to leave a place where you had been staying, 
in the middle of the night. Would Lord Erlsmere try and find 
her daughter, Agnes ? 

Lord Erlsmere could not but be most happy ; yet he delayed 
for a moment, with a lingering curiosity, to watch what had 
become of Eleanor and Blanche. 

“ You lost sight of your two friends in this crowd, I imagine,” 
said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, cleverly reading his thoughts. “ Peo- 
ple come and go like meteors. Stay — there are Adelaide and 
Caroline ; do bring them to me.” 

Lord Erlsmere crossed the hall, and delivered his summons. 
Adelaide was talking lightly with one of her partners as he 
came up. 

“I have orders from Mrs. Cuthbert Grey,” began Lord 
Erlsmere. 

“ Orders ? oh ! yes, to go, I suppose— Caroline,” and she 
looked round for her friend. 

“ Can I be of any service ? can I give any message, or find 
anything for you ?” asked Lord Erlsmere. 

“ No, thank you, nothing ; nothing at all. We must go ; 
the sooner the better,” she added, with an accent of peculiar 
melancholy — almost regret — which Lord Erlsmere, unobservant 
though he usually was, could not help remarking. 

“You are to be absent for some time,” he said. “I 
shall scarcely have the pleasure of seeing you again, I am 
afraid.” 

“ Thank you, no ; I think — I believe I am going for some 
time. Caroline, — where is she ?” 

Lord Erlsmere offered her his arm to lead her to Mrs. 
Cuthbert Grey. 

“ But mamma and papa ; I must see them ; I must say good 
b’ye to them,” said Adelaide. 

“ There will be sufficient time,” replied Lord Erlsmere, trying 
to check Adelaide’s haste by his own steady pace. “ The car- 
riage is not ordered yet ; you will scarcely get away for the 
next three-quarters of an hour.” 

Adelaide sighed, and the next moment burst into a fit of 
laughter, declaring that she was so fearfully tired, she had 
nearly lost her senses. 

“ You are not the only tired person, I imagine,” said Lord 
Erlsmere. “ Your cousin, Lady Blanche, for instance.” 


the earl’s daughter. 


277 


Adelaide coloured crimson. “ Blanche !” she exclaimed ; 
“ oh ! yes, Blanche is very tired, I believe.” 

“ She looked so just now, when I saw her,” continued Lord 
Erlsmere. “ But I will tell her, if you wish to see her before 
you go ?” 

“ Oh ! no, no, thank you ;” and Adelaide’s manner became 
even more impetuous. “ I would not trouble her for the world. 
Besides, she is with Miss Wentworth. It is better she should 
be with her ; she will only be flurried.” 

“ And you do not wish to see her ; to say good b’ye ?” said 
Lord Erlsmere, with a little curiosity to know why Blanche was 
so little of a favourite. 

“ Thank you, I don’t care ; it does not signify. They are 
talking together there, I believe,” and she pointed to a little 
room which had been occupied by some of the attendants dur- 
ing the evening ; “ but I would not disturb her. Please let 
me go to mamma,” and, hurrying from the hall, she threaded 
her way amidst the maze of guests, and through various rooms 
and passages, till they reached the drawing-room. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

The little waiting-room, to which Eleanor and Blanche had 
made their way, was quite deserted. It had been used merely 
as a temporary convenience, whilst the refreshments were handed 
about, and there was no fear of interruption in it. But, even 
if there had been, Blanche was not in a state of mind to have 
much thought except for the moment. When the door was 
seen to be open, and the room empty, she entered it as a place 
of refuge and relief ; and, regardless of Eleanor’s warning that 
the room was cold, and that it was not fitting for her to remain, 
exclaimed, “ Now, Eleanor, let me hear.” 

“ It is too late,” said Eleanor, moodily. “ Yours is but a 
mockery of sympathy.” 

“ Pity — have pity,” said Blanche, and she looked pleadingly 
in Eleanor’s face. 

“ I have nothing to tell,” continued Eleanor ; “ at least, 
nothing but what you may well guess. All things are as they 
were ; only, hastening to their end.” ^ 

“ .Amd is there no hope 2” asked Blanche. “ Has nothing 


278 


THE earl’s daughter. 


happened these two long, long days that you have kept away 
from me ?” 

“ You are unjust in your reproaches,” said Eleanor. “ What 
comfort could my visit have been ? You have cast off sympa- 
thy, and have destroyed the happiness of those as dear to me as 
my own life.” 

“ Yes, it may be, it may be,” said Blanche, in an accent of 
utter wretchedness. “ I know you have a right to be angry ; 
but I thought you would not go on being so.” 

“ It will make but little difference to you, I imagine, whether 
I do or not, ” said Eleanor : “ no one watching you this 
evening ” 

“ And are you too deceived ?” interrupted Blanche. “ Then 
indeed I can act well.” 

“ There is no cause for acting,” said Eleanor, bitterly. “ Lady 
Blanche Evelyn, beautiful, prosperous, wealthy, without a single 
care, — nay do not stop me ; I am only repeating what I have 
heard said by fifty persons this night.” 

“ But you shall hear me for myself,” exclaimed Blanche. 
“ Before you think me so cold, so heartless, you shall judge me 
from my own lips.” 

“ My own eyes will be the better judges,” replied Eleanor. 
“ Laughter and talking and dancing are sufficient indications of 
the state of a person’s mind.” 

“ And it must be laughter and talking and dancing to the 
end,” said Blanche ; “ the end,” she repeated again, thought- 
fully, “ which may soon be here.” Eleanor looked at her won- 
deringly, and a feeling of returning love and tenderness stole 
over her as she saw the sunken eye, and the pale cheek, now no 
longer bright, and flushed with excitement ; but marked by the 
undeniable signs of great mental suffering. “ Do you think I could 
be here to-night ?” said Blanche, “ if I followed but my own will. 
With so great a weight upon my mind, could it be my wish to 
join in such a scene, even though it is in my own honour ? But 
you have thought for youi mother, Eleanor ; and I have 
thought for my father. He is very unhappy — very anxious ; 
God knows whether there is cause,” she added ; her voice 
becoming almost sepulchral ; “ but I have felt to-night that 
there might be.” 

“ He is anxious for your health, I know,” said Eleanor. 

“ Not for my health of body,” replied Blanche ; “ but there 
is another^ear. He thinks I am like — my mother.” She 
paused for a moment, and continued hurriedly : “ He tries to 


THE earl’s daughter. 279 

hide it ; but I have seen it. I saw it the other day — that day,” 
and she gasped for breath, “ when we were together. His very 
eagerness to please me — I understand it, I know what it means ; 
and he shall please me ; I will be happy. If I am not” — her 
voice grew faint — “ he shall never have the misery of knowing 
it.” 

“ Blanche,” said Eleanor, in a tone of alarm, “ you must not 
let youi-self be excited in this way ; it will do you a great deal 
of harm. After all you may be fhnciful.” 

“ No, no,” exclaimed Blanche, shuddering; and coming up 
close to Eleanor, she added, in a tone of quiet despondency 
which made Eleanor forget for the moment that they had ever 
had a word of difference, “ he told me so himself, yesterday. 
He came to my room, and I was crpng, and we talked toge- 
ther, and I made him own it. Oh, Eleanor, he was so wretched 
and so kind — so very, very kind.” 

Eleanor kissed her and whispered, “ Dearest,” and Blanche, 
with the tone and manner of a weary child, laid her head upon 
her shoulder, and said : “ Let me be miserable with you ; with 
him I must always seem happy.” Several persons at that 
moment passed the door, and some one was heard to inquire for 
Mrs. Cuthbert Grey’s carriage. Blanche started up. “ We 
must not stay here,” she said. “ Only tell me that you forgive, 
that you understand me.” 

“ Yes, I will forgive ; that is, I will try to think you meant 
rightly,” said Eleanor, her own trial returning again to her 
recollection. “But you cannot go on in this way, Blanche. 
No mind could bear the constant effort.” 

Blanche smiled sweetly ; but very sadly. She stood for a 
moment thinking silently, and then her thoughts were uttered 
aloud, and she said abruptly, “ Johnnie Foster is dead ; did 
they tell you of it ?” Eleanor looked at her with astonishment. 
“ Yes, he is dead,” repeated Blanche, in the same dreamy tone. 
“ He sent me a message ; we will go and see his mother 
to-morrow.” 

“ Any one here ?” inquired a servant, opening the door. He 
drew back and apologized. He was looking for Mrs. Cuthbert 
Grey’s maid. She was wanted particularly. “ Mrs. Cuthbert 
Grey is going then,” said Eleanor. 

“ Yes, immediately,” was the reply : “ the carriage had 
been ordered a long time and the servant went away. 
Eleanor sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. 
Blanche walked up and down the room in great agitation. 


280 


THE earl’s daughter. 


“ Fool that I was !” exclaimed Eleanor. “ I might have seen 
the result from the beginning.” 

“There is no result yet,” said Blanche, in a voice quite 
different from her usual tone. 

Eleanor looked up sarcastically. “ When a vessel is driven 
against a rock, there can be but one end.” 

“ How can you be sure ?” asked Blanche. 

“ How can I doubt, rather ?” exclaimed Eleanor, with some- 
thing of indignation in her manner. “ When Adelaide Charl- 
ton takes Caroline Grey into her secrets, and hides them from 
me; and when Charles has come into the neighbourhood, 
desperate and full of wild schemes ; it is mockery to ask 
if I am sure. My poor, poor mother !” 

“ It must all be stopped, it must be prevented,” exclaimed 
Blanche. 

And Eleanor answered, bitterly : “ It could have been.” 

“ Lady Charlton ought to know', at least she ought to be put 
on her guard,” said Blanche. 

“ There is nothing to tell,” replied Eleanor, coolly ; “ except 
the engagement. There we ai-e both bound in honour to be 
silent.” 

A pause ensued. Eleanor rose to go. “ Stop,” said Blanche, 
detaining her. “ I cannot see why you should be so miserable 
to-night.” 

“ Because I am sure there is mischief plotting, and I cannot 
discover it. But it must come ; it is not my doing ; no, what- 
ever happens, it is not mine. They never told me. Charles 
never asked my advice. They have taken their own way, and ' 
they must answer for it. Oh ! if they had never, never met ! — 
if I had never sent a message, never encouraged them ! But I 
did not think. I did not suppose what it could come to. My 
poor mother !” 

Blanche dared not speak. Every word which Eleanor 
uttered added to her own distress. “ You will come and wish 
them good b’ye, of course,” continued Eleanor. The softness 
of manner which had stolen over her whilst attempting to com- 
fort Blanche’s grief was now quite gone. 

“ I will wish papa good night and go to bed,” said Blanche ; 

“ no one will miss me.” 

She looked extremely ill, and Eleanor offered to go with her. 

“ No, you will be wanted ; you had better find out Adelaide 
— or Maude ; can’t Maude help you ? she knows something.” 

“ She knows they are idiots, and she thinks us hypocrites,” 


'THE earl’s daughter. 


281 


said Eleanor ; “ that is all. For your comfort she believes you 
the worst of all.” 

“ Me ! — a hypocrite !” and Blanche was for the instant 
roused from unhappiness to indignation. 

“ She has heard some servants’ gossip, and thinks you are in 
league with me to support Charles, and make him propose to 
Adelaide,” said Eleanor ; “ but you may hear that share of 
blame, Blanche. It is little enough, and your conscience will 
tell you, you have not helped us.” 

This last sarcasm was the overflowing drop in poor Blanche’s 
cup of trial. She sat quite motionless, in a kind of stupor. 
The sound of carriage wheels had been heard frequently during 
the conversation. Music was still going on, but many of the 
guests were departing. Lord Rutherford came along the 
passage, and Eleanor heard him ask whether Lady Blanche’s 
maid was with her. “ He thinks you are gone to your room,” 
said Eleanor ; “ it is the best place for you.” 

Blanche did not answer. 

“Perhaps you had better stay here for a few minutes,” 
pui-sued Eleanor, “ and I will send your maid to you.” 

Still Blanche remained with her eyes fixed on vacancy, lean- 
ing back in her chair, and her hands resting helplessly in her 
lap. 

Eleanor was a little frightened. She thought of what it 
would be best to do, and supposing Blanche was over- 
fatigued, said, “ I will go and find Barnes, and wish Adelaide 
good b’ye, and then I will come back.” 

Blanche half smiled in acquiescence, and Eleanor was satisfied 
and left her. 

Several minutes went by, and Blanche continued in the same 
confused state of wretchedness and exhaustion. She heard 
people hurrying to and fro, and voices sounding now at a dis- 
tance, and now quite near, and she was conscious of being 
alone, where no one would think of finding her; where it 
would be considered strange that she should be ; yet she had 
no inclination to move. At length the medley of sounds rather 
died away, the music in the dancing-rooms ceased, and from the 
frequent repetition of Mrs. Cuthbert Grey’s name, it was evident 
that at length she was really going. Blanche had an impulse 
to say good b’ye to her and to Adelaide ; it seemed as if it 
would be kind and civil ; and she had a thought — it could not 
be called a hope, it was so vague — that she might do or say 
something, or discover something which might help to comfort 


282 


THE. earl’s daughter. 


Eleanor. But it was all dreamy and misty, and when she 
stood up, her head swam, and her eyes were dim, and it was 
an effort to her to make up her mind what she was to do. She 
remained at the door debating with herself whether it would 
not be better after all to go to bed. She had never felt so 
ill and strange before, but there were persons talking in the 
passage, and she had a dread of meeting any one, so she stood 
still till they should be gone. They did not, however, seem in- 
clined to go ; they were talking rather eagerly, but in an under- 
tone. They might be Adelaide and Miss Caroline Grey, for 
Blanche caught a few words about a cloak, and mamma, and 
looking in a little room, and then something else was said about 
forgetfulness, and one of them — the voice was very like Ade- 
laide’s — observed, “ It wont do to be forgetful now ; if one is 
careless for the rest of one’s life.” “ No,” and there was a 
laugh. “We must both have our presence of mind about us 
certainly, to-day and to-morrow, and then,” — “Yes, then,” — 
a sigh followed. 

“ Nay, you must not begin to sigh yet,” was the rejoinder. 
“ There will be time enough for that when the mischief is done ; 
but really, I don’t think there is the least cause for sighing.” 

Blanche went back into the waiting-room, for she felt that she 
had better not hear more. Immediately afterwards Adelaide 
and Caroline looked into the room, glanced round, without 
seeing Blanche, who was behind the door, and seeing no trace 
of the missing cloak were going away. 

“ Miss Adelaide Charlton’s cloak to-night,” said Caroline 
Grey, in a half whisper. “ Mrs. Charles Wentworth’s on 
Thursday. Fancy how absurd, and for mamma and Agnes to 
be so very amiable, — to leave us just at the very moment we 
wish to be left.” 

Blanche started, almost exclaimed, and stepped forward to 
show herself ; but the rustling of her dress alarmed the two 
friends, and they rushed away laughing nervously. Blanche 
stood motionless ; disgust and fear struggling in her breast. 
The next impulse was to follow Adelaide, and implore her to 
give up her schemes. Excitement caused a momentary energy 
both of body and mind, and she hurried through the passage 
and entered the hall, which was empty. There she paused to 
consider what was next to be done, for she heard Adelaide’s 
voice in an adjoining room, where several people were talking. 
She sat down on a bench. 

Eleanor came into the hall, and Blanche beckoned to her to 


THE E A H L ’ S DAUGHTER. 


283 


come near, and said, “ I think I know it all now. They have a 
plan for to-morrow, or the day after, when Mrs. Cuthbert Grey 
and Agnes will be out. Can that be possible ?” 

Eleanor turned quite white. “ How did you know it ? So 
soon ’ Yes, it may be. Oh ! Blanche ! Blanche !” 

“ I will stop it,” said Blanche, in a hollow voice. 

“ How ?” 

“ I will see Adelaide.” 

“ But she is gone.” 

“ No, not gone : only going. — Hark !” 

“ Yes, she is there ; but there is not time ; and she is wilful 
beyond imagination.” 

“ Then my aunt — ” 

“ No, no, we cannot ; indeed, we cannot betray them.” 

“ Good b’ye,” said Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, approaching the 
hall. “The carriage is at the side entrance below, 1 think you 
said.” 

“Yes,” replied Lady Charlton, who was following behind 
her : “ it was more convenient for the luggage. You will not 
mind our passages, I hope ; they are all well warmed.” 

They moved on, accompanied by Agnes and Caroline Grey, \ 
and Adelaide. Two or three gentlemen were with them, but 
not Lord Erlsmere. 

“ I must go with them,” said Eleanor. “ Will you come 
too ?” 

Blanche made a faint effort to move. 

“ No ; you had better remain,” continued Eleanor, watching 
her. 

But Blanche stood up, and said, “ I will speak to Adelaide.” 

“ Now ? Impossible.” 

“ But I must — I must,” repeated Blanche, vehemently. “ If 
she knows that I know, it must frighten her.” 

“ Probably it might, if there had been time ; but it is too 
late,” and without waiting for Blanche’s reply, Eleanor hastened 
to follow Mrs. Cuthbert Grey. 

Blanche delayed for an instant to consider ; but the instant 
seemed a year. The voices and footsteps grew fainter along the 
passages, and as they died away she became desperate, and 
resolved to warn Adelaide at all hazards, rushed from the hall, 
as fast as her failing strength would allow, towards the side 
entrance. 

She was met by Lord Erlsmere at the top of the staircase 
which led to the lower part of the house. “ Lady Blanche 1 — 


284 


THE earl’s daughter. 


liere alone ! I thought you were ill. I thought you had 
retired long since,” he exclaimed. 

Blanche only shook her head, and, without an answer, would 
have hurried on. The light of a lamp fell upon her features ; 
their expression was wild and ghastly, and Lord Erlsmere, 
putting himself before her, said, “ Excuse me ; something very 
much is the matter : you are ill.” 

“111? yes, very,” and Blanche tried to pass him, saying, 
eagerly, “ They will be gone ; I must see them : will no one 
tell them to stop ?” 

“ Mrs. Cuthbert Grey’s party, you mean,” said Lord Erlsmere, 
looking at her steadily. 

“ Yes, Adelaide ; I must see her ; I must go to her.” 

“ But not by yourself, in the cold. Pray, wrap a shawl round 
you, or let me take a message.” 

“No; I must go myself — no one but myself,” exclaimed 
Blanche, more agitated than before. “ There is not a moment 
to lose.” 

She was growing very faint, and Lord Erlsmere saw that 
her steps tottered. “You must take my arm,” he said, and 
Blanche did as she was told, for she could scarcely stand 
alone. 

“ Come, come,” she said, and she tried to draw him forward ; 
and, as she spoke, Mrs. Cuthbert Grey’s warning flashed upon 
his mind with horror. They reached the foot of the stairs ; 
a cold draught rushed along the passage from the side 
entrance. 

“This is death to you,” exclaimed Lord Erlsmere ; but 
Blanche laughed faintly, and said in a strange voice, 

“ Did you hear them ? they are there ;.they are not gone.” 

Lord Erlsmere stopped at an open door. “ This way,” he 
said ; “ this is the best way,” and Blanche mechanically fol- 
lowed him, and entered a small room. 

“ You must wait here,” said Lord Erlsmere, assuming a tone 
of authority. “ I will not take you into the night air.” 

Blanche sank upon a chair, and clasping her hands, exclaimed 
— “ Fetch her ; fetch Adelaide. Beg her to come. God grant 
she may listen.” 

Lord Erlsmere paused, irresolutely. “ If you would be calm,” 
he began, gravely ; “ and could tell me your message.” 

“ Bring her to me, — only let me speak to her ; only bring 
her. Have you no mercy ?” 

Lord Erlsmere moved slowly to the door ; opened it and 


THE earl’s daughter. 


285 


listened. There was a confused sound of voices ; then a 
momentary lull, and then the quick rattle of carriage wheels. 

“ They are gone,” said Lord Erlsmere, quietly, and in a tone 
of relief. 

A fearful change passed over Blanche’s face, and as blood 
gushed from her mouth, she sank down apparently lifeless. 


CHAPTER XLVr. 

Two days after the ball ! It was growing dusk ; the bell 
had been rung for candles in the drawing-room. Lady Charlton 
rang, not for herself, but for Sir Hugh. She was with him 
alone. All the visitors were gone. Maude was sitting in 
Blanche’s room, whilst Lord Rutherford was trying to sleep. 
One might have heard every footstep in the house, as the ser- 
vants moved cautiously through the long passages ; their slow 
tread in the distance, the one only sound disturbing the general 
stillness. It was very oppressive — very deathlike ; and when 
the footman brought a small lamp, only just sufficient for Sir 
Hugh at his table, no fault was found. The dim light at the 
extremity of the large drawing-room seemed all that could be 
needed that evening. 

“ Dr. Lawson gone ?” inquired Sir Hugh, looking up. 

“ Yes ; a quarter of an hour ago. She has been asleep since.” 

“ Asleep, has she ? she will do very well then. She will get 
over it. I always thought so. These sudden attacks are just 
hke what I used to have when I was a boy. Much more dan- 
gerous indeed mine were. I used to lie for hours ” 

“ Yes, yes ; I remember,” began Lady Charlton. 

“ No, my dear, begging your pardon, you can’t remember, 
for you did not know me. I was going to tell you about them.” 

“ You had better not move to your own room before dinner. Sir 
Hugh,” interrupted Lady Charlton. “Let Pearson settle you here, 
though, certainly, this room is dreadfully cold. I shall go up 
staii-s, and see how things are going on there. You wanted to 
read this, didn’t you ?” she added, opening a book with uncut 
leaves. 

Sir Hugh seized it eagerly : The very thing ! Where did 
it come from ?” 

“ Mr. Johnstone sent it yesterday by the fly which took Miss 
Wentworth away.” 


€ 


286 THE earl’s daughter. 

9 

“ Oh ! yes, to be sure. Johnstone and I were to have had a 
discussion upon it ; and Rutherford too. Poor fellow ! Well, 
I suppose we must wait ; but she will get over it ; there is no 
question about it. She is not half as ill as I was ; and I don’t 
see myself why every one should have left us in such a hurry, 
Miss Wentworth especially. A very fine girl she is ; she looked 
beautiful the other night.” 

“ Miss Wentworth went of her own accord,” said Lady 
Charlton ; muttering in an undertone, as she walked away, 
“ the only symptom of good taste I have seen in her.” 

Sir Hugh finding himself without a listener, betook himself 
to his book, and soon afterwards, being persuaded by the dis- 
creet Pearson that the library was the best place for him on 
such a cold evening, retired, and left the drawing-room fire for 
his wife whenever she chose to return to it. 

Lady Charlton walked up-stairs quietly, moved quickly along 
the gallery, opened the door of Blanche’s room noiselessly, but 
still with energy ; and looking around her as she entered, saw 
at one glance all that had been done, or was wanting to be done. 
It was little enough, but it was sufficient to occupy her for 
several minutes in giving whispered orders to the maid, and 
mute suggestions to Maude : and then she went and stood by 
the bedside, and looked upon Blanche’s pallid face, now calmed 
by the half-repose of exhaustion. She was not a person in 
general to show much feeling ; sometimes, it was said that she 
had none ; but this was an injustice. Perhaps the most unself- 
ish of all her affections was that which centred in her niece, 
and no one could have seen Blanche then, and thought of the 
intensity of happiness or misery that depended upon her life, 
without deep emotion. 

Whilst Lady Charlton was still in the room. Lord Rutherford 
came in, and stood by her. Tears had stolen down her cheek, 
almost unconsciously, before ; but now she . took her handker- 
chief and turned her face to the light, and whispered with a 
look of sympathy, “ Poor child ! we must be thankful she can 
sleep. Maude tells me she has been very quiet for the last 
hour.” 

“ Yes,” said Lord Rutherford, shortly ; and he moved away 
without even going to look at Blanche, and sat down in an arm 
chair by the fire. 

Maude left her seat, and pointed to her mother to occupy it ; 
but Lady Charlton could not sit and watch, except at night, 
when she was exerting herself to do what no one else was equal 


THE EARL S DAUGHTER. 


287 


to. Her tears were gone now, and she was, as before, full 
of business, obliged to go and see about a hundred things ; and 
after another compassionate glance at Blanche, she whispered to 
Maude to let the maid take her place when she came down 
to dinner, and departed. 

Lord Rutherford and Maude were fit company for each other. 
They had no wish for sympathy. It might be that each 
felt there were depths of suffering which no comfort, no comfort 
at least which they knew, could reach. Into the causes of a 
father’s grief there is no need to search. They who have loved 
as Lord Rutherford loved — who have staked their last hope of 
happiness upon an earthly idol, and feel that they may be about 
to lose it, can alone tell the anguish of that awful suspense 
between life and death which language may not venture to 
describe. 

But Maude had no life-long interests at stake. Whether 
Blanche lived or died, she had yet home, youth, talents, friends, 
and many of the allurements of the world, to brighten her 
prospect of the future. Yet there were feelings, selfish, perhaps, 
in some respects, but bitter and uncontrollable, which made the 
weary hours of that evening so desolate, that Maude would 
almost have been contented to exchange them for the earl’s keen 
sorrow. 

There is excitement in some griefs ; we struggle with them 
manfully ; the world’s sympathy is with us ; and we either 
conquer or die. There is hopeless monotony in others, and we 
bear them day after day, beneath a calm exterior ; and years of 
endurance go by, and they are buried with us in our graves, and 
none guess the secret of their existence. 

Maude had never experienced a bitter grief; her natural 
temperament was not open to it. She had never loved deeply, 
for she was slow to excite, and cautious, and criticising even 
when excited. There was within her a capacity of strong affec- 
tion, but it had never been called forth. She did not think 
now that Blanche was going to die, but if she had thought so, 
it would scarcely have made her more desolate, for hers was the 
desolation of the mind as well as of the heart ; the feverish, 
parched dryness and barrenness of a spirit, which is for ever 
longing to rest upon some oasis of beauty and truth in the 
desert of life, and when it thinks that it has found the object of 
its desires, discovers that it has trusted to delusion. Maude had 
often been disappointed before she knew Blanche. She had 
often imagined perfection, and found imperfection ; imagined 


288 


THE earl’s daughter. 


truth, and discovered falsehood : and she had said to herself 
that she would never trust again, yet she had trusted — uncon- 
sciously ; she had watched the light of Blanche’s example, until 
something of clearness had spread itself over the darkness of 
her own mind ; and the path of duty, and the way of truth, 
had opened themselves, though indistinctly, before her. But it 
was all dim now, all gloomy and doubtful as before. The light 
had been extinguished, for the thought of Blanche was mixed 
up with schemes and deceptions, irresolution and inconsistency ; 
and Maude could better have borne a great offence, than a 
weakness which diminished her reverence. 

What Eleanor, and Adelaide, and Mr. Wentworth might be 
doing or planning, she scarcely considered except as she believed 
them to be associated with Blanche. It was for her that she 
had been anxious and suspicious, and it was for her that she 
now grieved, as over one who had consented to take part in con- 
duct unworthy of her education and her principles. The occur- 
rences of the last few days, Blanche’s wretchedness and disquie- 
tude, her uneasiness respecting the disposal of the living, and 
the reserve she had strictly^ maintained as to the cause of her 
distress afterwards ; had convinced Maude that, in some way — 
how she did not know, and could not inquire — Blanche had, 
notwithstanding the warning given her, fallen into the snare pre- 
pared for her, and was pledged to exert her influence in Mr. 
Wentworth’s favour. More than this she did not guess, but it 
was sufficient to make her feel that her trust in Blanche’s stabi- 
lity of character was at an end ; and to throw her back upon 
her own desponding doubts, whether any real firmness and 
goodness were to be found on earth : and now she sat by the 
fire, in the dusky twilight, thinking of Blanche, and knowing that 
she was very ill, and that even if she recovered this present 
attack, its consequences might eventually be fatal, yet not able 
to rouse hei-self to any feeling but that of gloomy depression at 
her own dreariness of heart. 

It was a time when a person of a different character might 
have been roused to exertion, in the hope of putting a stop to 
anything amiss as regarded Adelaide ; but Maude was a 
theorist. From the height of her philosophy she looked down 
upon Adelaide and Eleanor with contempt; and, if occasion 
required, she could have discoursed eloquently upon the indulged 
faults which led to the conduct she condemned ; but it was not 
in her way to interfere with what she called other people’s 
affairs, unless, as in the case of Blanche, urged by some peculiar 


THE earl’s daughter. 289 

personal interest. Silly persons would be silly, she knew, in spite 
of all she could say or do, and it was one of her favourite, com- 
forting sayings, that the world must go its own way, and she 
must go hers ; and in this spirit of indifferentism, she abstained 
from inquiring minutely into what was passing about her ; con- 
tented with knowing that it was folly, and therefore beneath her 
notice. But we cannot thus cut ourselves off from our fellow- 
creatures ; the members of one family especially, cannot do so. 
By the inevitable decree of Providence, the sin of one will be felt 
in its punishment by the others ; and woe be to us, if, whilst evil 
is working around us, we passively fold our hands and close our 
eyes, and say, it does not concern us. 

There was one fact, however, which gave Maude great relief — 
Eleanor Wentworth was gone. She had left Senilhurst to 
return to Mr. Johnstone’s, the previous day, upon the pretext of 
fearing to be in the way when every one was so anxious about 
Blanche. Maude smiled to herself at the apparent coldness of 
heart which could allow her to go at such a moment ; but she 
was only too well pleased to be saved from the annoyance of her 
presence ; and poor Eleanor departed 'with a weight upon her 
heart, which Maude, proud and unsympathizing though she was, 
could scarcely have forborne to pity, if she had known it. 

Lord Rutherford and Maude sat together for nearly half an 
hour without speaking or moving. Then Blanche roused herself 
and seemed a little refreshed ; but it was an effort to her to say 
anything. Maude took out her watch and pointed to the hour- 
hand, and observed to Lord Rutherford that it was dinner-time. 

“ Is it ?” was the answer. 

* “ Yes ; I will send Barnes to take our place.” She waited for 
him to assent, but he did not seem to hear her, and she could 
not speak to him again. There was something in his face which 
repelled her. Maude looked round to see that everything was 
comfortable ; she was a good nurse ; continued ill health had 
taught her what illness requires ; but perhaps she was a little 
fidgety ; at least Lord Rutherford seemed to think so, for his eye 
followed her impatiently, as she went about the room. 

“ Then Barnes will come,” she ventured to say, as she was 
going away. 

“ I will send for her when I want her,” was his reply ; he 
followed her to the door, closed it behind her, and returned to 
stand by Blanche’s bed. Their eyes met, but his were turned 
away in an instant ; she was lying uncomfortably, and he raised 
her, and placed her pillows right, and smoothed the coverlid, 

13 


290 


THE earl’s daughter. 


and moved the lamp ; and afterwards poured out her medicine 
slowly, lingering over the action, and doing everything with a 
curious precision. When it was all finished, he brought his 
chair near to sit down, but that was a great effort, and he could 
not bear it ; and leaning his head against the side of the bed, 
he cried. 

Barnes looked into the room to know if he was coming down 
to dinner. 

“ No,” he answered, at first ; but Blanche made a little move- 
ment with her hand, as if begging him to go. He stooped 
down and kissed her, and said he would rather not, he was better 
with her. 

But she whispered, “ Please,” and her soft eyes were fixed on 
him entreatingly ; and submissively, without another word, he 
went down-stairs. 

They were but a small gloomy party in the large dining- 
room ; Sir Hugh prosed, and Lady Charlton found fault ; and 
Maude wrapped a shawl round her, and complained bitterly of 
the cold ; and the solemn men-servants moved round and round 
the table, offering dishes which scarcely any one, but Sir Hugh, 
tasted. Lord Rutherford ate nothing, though he took care to 
place enough on his plate to avoid the notice of Sir Hugh, who 
not only made a point of eating a good dinner himself, but con- 
sidered it incumbent on his guests, as a matter of civility, to do 
the same. 

“ I am glad to hear your patient is improving,” he said to 
Lord Rutherford, as the interval between the first and second 
courses allowed him.to turn his attention to something besides 
fish and soup. “ I have no doubt myself that it will all come 
right, and I have had a good deal of experience in such matters. 
The fact is, young people will be imprudent. We ought to 
have shut her up the night of the party.” 

“ I urged it,” said Lady Charlton, with some bitterness, “ but 
DO one would listen to me. Some people are destined to be 
Cassandras.” 

“ Blanche came down stairs because she was told she might,” 
said Lord Rutherford. The tone made even Sir Hugh feel that 
the subject had better be dropped. He turned to another part 
of the same topic — to introduce a new one was not easy. 

He had been trying, he said, to reckon the numbers of the 
party exactly ; but he was puzzled. Lady Charlton had for- 
gotten to give him the answers to the invitations. Would Lord 
Rutherford help him to recollect ? 


THE earl’s daughter. 


291 


The earl groaned audibly ; and Maude came to his relief and 
said, “ They might make a list after dinner.” 

“We were one gentleman short,” said Sir Hugh ; “dt was 
very provoking. I meant to have had a secret — a surprise ; 
nothing so pleasant, on these occasions, as a surprise.” 

Lady Charlton drew herself up, and her 'eyes sparkled ; but 
she managed to say very gently, that she was not fond of 
secrets in general, and she supposed this could not be a very 
important one. 

“ Why not ? — my dear ? — why not ? — why am I not to have 
important secrets ; or rather, who has ever had so many as 
myself ? When the late premier — he was my great friend — 
you remember,” added Sir Hugh, appealing to Lord Ruther- 
tbrd ; “ when the late premier came” — a dish was placed before 
Sir Hugh — and the late premier was deferi-ed for the moment. 

“ We shall hear from Adelaide to-morrow, I suppose,” said 
Lady Charlton, hoping to get the conversation, if such it could 
be called, into her own hands. “ I shall be glad to hear what 
she is doing at Oakfield. A first visit is always rather a trial.” 

“ They must make up a very pleasant society at Oakfield,” 
observed Sir Hugh. ' “ I don’t know anywhere a more agree- 
able, sensible woman, than Mrs. Cuthbert Grey ; and very fine 
girls her daughters are. They, and their neighbours the John- 
stones, and Mr. Wentworth” — he paused and looked round him 
significantly. 

“ Miss Wentworth, you mean,” said Maude. 

“ No, ray dear, excuse me ; I know my own words — Mr. 
Wentworth. Mrs. Cuthbert Grey, Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone, 
and Miss and Mr. Wentworth will form a very agreeable 
society.” 

Maude involuntarily glanced at her mother. Lady Charl- 
ton’s lips turned very white. She poured out a glass of water, 
and drank it quickly. No one spoke for some moments. 

Then Lady Charlton said slowly, “ You did not think it 
necessary to tell me that Mr. Wentworth was to be in the 
neighbourhood.” 

“ No, my dear ; no certainly, Frances, my love,” began Sir 
Hugh, in a frightened tone, and his eyes glanced up and down 
quickly from his plate to his wife’s face. “ A little secret — 
nothing but a little secret — every one likes a little secret. 
Johnstone told me the other day, that young Wentworth was 
coming, before very long, to fetch his sister home ; and I gave 
him — that is, I said if he happened — if he should just chance 


292 


THE earl’s daughter. 


to arrive before tbe 29th, he was to send him over. A young 
man is always an acquisition — always welcome on such occa- 
sions. In fact,” and growing bolder as he went on, his tone 
became rather that of defiance, “ in fact, it was my wish — I 
thought it a compliment due ; old friends you know, and his 
sister here, and in fact — in fact ; but he did not come, my dear, 
So there is no harm done.” 

“ It is not a matter of much consequence, I suppose,” said 
Lord Rutherford, drily, and not raising his eyes to see the 
expression of the different faces. In that he was very unlike 
Lady Charlton. She could see in all directions, one might 
almost say, at once. Now, she saw opposite to her the twink- 
ling intelligent eyes of one of the servants ; the effect was that 
she replied, with an air of nonchalance, “ Of course not. The 
coming or going of a young man hke Mr. Wentworth can be of 
no consequence to any one.” 

It was provoking and humiliating to see the footman bite his 
lips to suppress a smile. Lady Charlton could have found it in 
her heart to order him out of the room. 

“ Hark ! there is a ring at the bell,” said Lord Rutherford. 

“ It must be Dr. Lawson come again.” He pushed aside his 
plate, and, without the thought of an apology, hurried away. 

“ It is not Dr. Lawson,” observed Maude. “ He said he ^ 
should not be here till to-morrow.” 

“ Some parcel or message from Cobham, I suppose,” remarked 
Lady Charlton. “ I wonder people can’t find their way to the 
side entrance.” 

“ I ’utend to make a fuss about it, my dear,” said Sir Hugh. 

“ It is a great deal too bad— an infringement upon private 
rights. I shall take some steps the very first opportunity. 
You may depend upon it, my dear, it shall be prevented. Let 
the Cobham people know,” he added, speaking to the servant, 

“ that if they continue to come to the hall door, I will — I will — 

I vow I will see what can be done to prevent them.” 

“ It was not from Cobham, Sir Hugh,” said the footman, 
respectfully, yet with a very meaning curl of the lip. “ I heard 
the horse come up the other road.” 

Lord Rutherford returned, hurried and disappointed. There 
was no Dr. Lawson, but some message ; he did not know what. 
He sat down again at the table. A silence of expectation 
followed. 

“ They are a long time bringing the message,” said Lady 
Charlton. “ Foster, go and see what is the reason.” 


THE earl’s D a U CJ H T E R . 


203 


Foster went to the door, and as he opened it received a note, 
just come, brought from Oakfield. 

“ From Oakfield ?” said Lady Charlton, a little anxiously. 

“ So late ! Nothing amiss, I hope.” 

The note was taken to Maude. It was strange — generally 
self-possessed as she was — her hand quite trembled when she 
took it up. 

“ To ask how Blanche is, I suppose,” said Lady Charlton. 

“ I dare say they were anxious, and did not like to wait till 
to-morrow.” 

The seal was broken. Lady Charlton looked at the envelope. 
The feelings of a mother, usually so dormant within her, were 
awakened by a vague foreboding, “ That idle child ; how 
badly she writes ! What does she say of herself, Maude ?” 

Maude looked up wildly. 

“ What does she say of herself, Maude ? What is it ?” 

Still no answer. 

Lady Charlton caught the note from her daughter’s hand. 

Maude started. “ Mamma, pray wait one moment.” 

It was too late. Lady Charlton’s eye had fallen upon the . 
signature — Adelaide Wentworth, and she sank back almost 
unconscious. 

Maude tossed the note to Sir Hugh, motioned the servants 
from the room, and turning to Lord Rutherford, said, as she 
went to her mother’s assistance, “ She is married ! She is 
Adelaide W entworth ! God forgive her !” 

Sir Hugh held the note in his hand, vainly trying to read it. 

“ Adelaide what, my dear ? Adelaide who ? What is the 
matter ? What has happened ?” 

“ Let me go to him,” said Maude to Lord Rutherford, giving 
a glass of water into his hand. “ Mamma will be better in a 
minute. It is a note from Adelaide, sir,” she said, speaking to 
Sir Hugh ; “ she has been doing extremely wrong. She ought 
to be ashamed of herself.” 

“ But what has she been doing ? What does she mean ? 
Why does she call herself Adelaide Wentworth ? Read the 
note : let me hear it.” 

“ It is very short, and I can’t make it all out,” replied Maude, 
muttering to herself. “ She thinks I shall help her. Intense, 
unutterable folly! The note is not worth reading,” she said 
aloud ; “ but she is married, sir — that is what it is ; married to 
Mr. Wentworth. She is Mrs. Wentworth.” 

Sir Hugh caught up the note again, raised himself with diffi- 


294 


THE earl’s daughter. 


culty from his chair, drew the lamp towards him, and began 
stumbling through it : — 

“ My dear Maude, — I write in immense haste. You will be 
shocked of course ; but there was nothing else to be done, and 
no good in delay. You will break it to mamma. Papa, I hope 
and believe, will feel with me. You must try and understand 
this, for we trust to you to help us. We were married this 
morning, and are just starting for London. Make mamma for- 
give me, or I shall be miserable. 

“ Yours affectionately, 

“Adelaide Wentworth.” 

Sir Hugh threw the note from him, with a fearful exclama- 
tion of anger. “ Feel with them ! I feel with them ! Runa- 
ways ! outcasts ! Young Wentworth ! Scoundrel ! They shall 
never darken these doors — never ! They shall never have a 
farthing from me. Write to them, Maude, and tell them. I 
feel with them, indeed ! I vow your mother was right. Impu- 
dent scamp ! my son-in-law ! marry my daughter ! marry into 
our family ! and that woman ! that Mrs. Cuthbert Grey !” 

Maude had returned to her mother, who was slowly recover- 
ing ; but as she heard the last words, she picked up the note 
from the floor, and showing the postscript, said, “ Mrs. Cuthbert 
Grey is not to blame ; that is her writing. ‘ I cannot attempt 
to comfort or excuse now ; only believe that it was entirely with- 
out my knowledge. — A. G.’ I believe that,” continued Maude, 
speaking to Lord Rutherford. “ For example’s sake she would 
have been ashamed ; but some one must have known it.” 

“ The pleasant details will come to-morrow,” replied the earl. 
“ It is a perfect mystery to me ; I can’t believe it !” 

“ Poor mamma can’t believe it either,” said Maude, as Lady 
Charlton opened her eyes, and looked round her inquiringly. 

Sir Hugh managed to hobble to the other side of the table. 
“ Take her to bed,” he said, almost tenderly. “ There is no 
place like bed ; let her go to sleep. Poor thing ! poor thing ! 
It is a horrid blow — most unexpected. Ring for some one, 
Maude, to help her up-stairs adding, as he bent down and 
actually kissed her, “ we will talk of it to-morrow, my dear ; but 
you had better go to bed. I shall write to them, and tell them 
they need hot expect anything from me.” 

“Yes; my own room. Let me go, Maude,” said Lady 
Charlton, faintly ; and, whilst the bitterness of returning recol- 


THE earl’s daughter. 


295 


lection rushed upon her as a flood, yet striving to keep up a 
proud composure. “ Only let me never hear her name again ; 
she has disgraced it.” 


CHAPTER XLVII. ' 

A SAD and trying week went by at Senilhurst. Every one 
knows that the first moment of a great shock is not the worst ; 
and the blow inflicted by Adelaide Charlton’s marriage was no 
exception to the rule. It was not indeed one of those events 
which could be justly called a misfortune, by persons who 
regarded it in a worldly point of view. Mr. Wentworth was a 
gentleman by birth and education, and if he had no money 
himself. Sir Hugh was quite rich enough to assist him. He 
was also a person of unstained reputation, and, except in this 
one act of his marriage, of supposed high principle. Adelaide 
might undoubtedly have done worse. After all her levity * and 
flirting, she might consider herself fortunate in not having been 
led into a much more undesirable engagement. This was what 
the world said ; and, in consequence, it gave Lady Charlton but 
a small portion of commiseration. But Lady Charlton herself 
did not view the subject in the same light. Her pride was 
wounded ; and not in one point only. Family and fortune were 
inestimable advantages in the eyes of the world, and for them 
she would have sacrificed her daughter’s happiness, and thought 
she was but consulting her best interests. But character, pro- 
priety — that indescribable delicacy and dignity which act as a 
shield from public remark — were scarcely less precious, because 
they were valued by those whose good opinion she was always 
seeking — the wise and good. It was their censure which Lady 
Charlton had dreaded when Adelaide flirted, and it was their 
censure which she feared now. A daughter’s fault must in a 
measure recoil upon the mother who has had the charge of her 
education ; and bitterly now did she repent the carelessness 
and blindness which had induced her to bring Adelaide very 
early into society, and give her almost unchecked freedom of 
thought and action. But it was for herself that Lady Charlton 
repented, not for her daughter. It was for the loss of her own 
position- — her character as an excellent adviser, and a sensible 
guardian and friend. No one would henceforth appeal to her 
as a person whose cleverness, and judgment, and experience 


' 296 


THE earl’s daughter. 


gave value to her opinion upon education. One who had 
evidently made some great mistake in the training of her own 
child could not be competent to counsel others. Lady Charlton 
felt lowered. That is a feeling hard to bear — insupportable, 
except when we can carry it in humility to our Maker, and own 
■< it as our just meed and punishment. Lady Charlton could not 
do this. She struggled against it, and resolved to conquer it. 
No one should say that deception and imprudence, and the 
absence of womanly dignity, were sanctioned by Lady Charlton. 
As Adelaide’s conduct was the subject of general remark, so 
also should be her mother’s displeasure. Mr. and Mrs. Charles 
Wentworth might go their own way, and follow their own 
course ; but they should not be admitted at Senilhurst. And 
Lady Charlton, as she made the determination, smiled scornfully, 
in the conscious stateliness of virtuous indignation. 

The worst was over then ; since, for once, almost the first 
time since their marriage. Sir Hugh and herself were agreed. • 

Both Adelaide and Charles had made a great mistake in 
supposing that Sir Hugh would support their cause against all 
opposition, if once they were married. Sir Hugh was a vain 
man ; vain persons will do anything to assist those who choose 
to consult and flatter them, but they will almost infallibly turn 
against those who choose to act without them. Sir Hugh’s 
vanity was as much piqued by Mr. Wentworth’s neglect as Lady 
Charlton’s pride was by Adelaide’s imprudence, and the morti- 
fication found its solace in the same revenge. 

A short note was sent to Adelaide, telling her that since she 
had chosen a companion for life, for herself, she must, for the 
future, look to him, and to him alone ; as her parents did not 
feel it consistent with their sense of right to sanction her con- 
duct by receiving her at Senilhurst ; and then. Sir Hugh and 
Lady Charlton felt themselves at liberty to announce their sen- 
timents publicly, and hold themselves up to admiration, as 
martyrs to the cause of filial obedience and propriety. 

All this appeared very inconsistent to Maude ; and was of 
very little consequence to Lord Rutherford. In the’ eyes of 
Maude, Adelaide’s foolish marriage was but the natural end of 
her previous foolish conduct. After the first moment, she 
almost wondered at herself for being startled at it. It was 
extremely wrong ; disobedient and selfish ; but, to her own know- 
ledge, Adelaide had never been taught to be anything else. 
Her principles were the principles of the world ; and Maude, 
keen-sighted and cool-judging, had long since discovered that it 


THE earl’s daughter. 


297 


was in these they had both been nurtured from infancy. Lady 
Charlton might talk, and seemingly act religiously ; she might 
praise daily services, give money to build churches, teach in 
parish schools, cultivate the acquaintance of men distinguished 
for learning and piety ; but the stamp of the world was 
upon all. 

Lady Charlton liked popularity ; Adelaide liked admiration. 
Lady Charlton talked gravely, and believed she should be 
thought serious-minded ; and Adelaide laughed and chattered, 
and supposed she should be considered clever. Lady Charlton 
put a cross upon her prayer-book, because it was the fashion ; 
Adelaide put an ornament upon her dress from the same mo- 
tive. Lady Charlton went to church ; Adelaide went to balls. 
Lady Charlton liked the occupation, and the attendant excite- 
ments, and the food for conversation, and the consciousness of 
being noticed ; Adelaide liked the same. 

Where was the difference between them ? Maude could not 
see it. She thought her mother harsh, and she said so ; and, 
in return, received a lecture upon female decorum, which, to a 
person whose offences were entirely on the side of stiffness, 
coldness, and fastidious reserve, became almost an absurdity. 

A gulf, wider than ever, was opened between Maude and her 
parents ; and, unhappily, the subject of difference could not be 
avoided. It was brought forward daily, by letters, visits, and 
suggestions, and all that marvellous want of taste which neigh- 
bours and acquaintances so often show in their strained efforts 
to be sympathetic. 

“ The pleasant details of the marriage,” as Lord Rutherford 
had termed them, came in due time ; certainly exculpating 
Mrs. Cuthbert Grey from any share in the plan, but throwing 
great blame upon one of her daughters. It was Miss Caroline 
Grey, who had entered into the scheme and furthered it ; and 
had actually been present at the marriage. Of course her mo- 
ther was duly shocked and distressed ; but no regret could undo 
the past. The intimacy oetween the two families must inevitably 
be stopped for the future ; and Mrs. Cuthbert Grey’s excuses and 
apologies were received and dismissed coldly, and with an 
openly avowed satisfaction on the part of Lady Charlton, as she 
spoke to Maude of the obstacle which would, in consequence, 
be interposed to the designs upon Lord Erlsmere, with whom 
Mrs. Cuthbert Grey had no acquaintance except through their 
meetings at Senilhui'st. 

Maude could not enter into such feelings ; they were, to her, 
13 * 


298 


THE earl’s daughter. 


petty and unbecoming. She did not look at them deeply, as a 
person of high religious principle would have done; but s];ie 
was disgusted. She longed to bury the subject for ever in obli- 
vion. She heard that it was proposed for Mr. Wentworth, if 
possible, to enter the^army, and she hoped he might be ordered 
abroad. That was what, in her heart, she most d^esired. Any- 
thing to remove them from her mother’s thoughts ; to prevent 
the constant, exasperating recurrence to the same unhappy 
topic. As regarded Adelaide, they had never been sisters in 
more than name ; and Maude could not feign a regret at her 
loss, which she had no reason to feel. 

Yet Senilhurst was very changed. Something was gone 
from it ; not money, not rank, not any external advantage : but 
the life, the spring and motive of excitement, were absent. 
Adelaide had been an excuse for visits, parties, amusements ; 
and though Maude professed not to like these things, she had 
been so long accustomed to them that she did not know how to 
do without them. She looked hopelessly round for some object, 
something to do or to care for, or at least to think of. Accom- 
plishments and study were left her, and Maude had once 
boasted that with these she could never find existence weari- 
some. But they were not sufficient now. There was nothing 
soothing and satisfying in them. She might read, but to what 
purpose ? — she might study, but where was the benefit, if read- 
ing and thought did but send her forth on a journey of intri- 
cate speculations, and distracting difficulties ? Maude leaned 
upon her own mind, and it failed her. 

That was the state of the outward world at Senilhurst, sharp, 
irritated, and gloomy. There was another, an interior world, 
which none saw, save those who watched in the sick room, 
where day by day, and hour by hour, the changes and flicker- 
ings of disease brought hope or despair to the heart of the Earl 
of Rutherford. There is, perhaps, no self-deception so universal 
as that which is discovered in our anxiety for those we love. 
If Lord Rutherford’s case had been another’s he would have 
been the first to discover all that he had to fear. But he was a 
father, watching over his only child, and who shall blame him, 
if as he saw Blanche partially regaining her strength, able to 
eat, able to be moved, able occasionally to conveise, he flattered 
himself with the belief, that the illness was like many other ill- 
nesses, dangerous for the time, and requiring care ; but giving 
no definite reason to doubt that she would, when the winter 
was over, regain her former health. 


THE earl’s daughter. 


299 


“ Your cough is better, my love, to-day,” he said, as he came 
to see Blanche when she was dressed, and sitting up for a few 
hours in her own room. “ Barnes tells me that it has not been 
half as frequent as it was.” 

“ I have scarcely coughed at all this morning,” replied 
Blanche ; “ and I was only really disturbed by it once in the 
night ; and then I think it was because the wind changed.” 

“ But you have not eaten anything,” said the earl, observing 
her untasted dinner placed on a tray near her. 

“ I have no fancy for anything just now. This being kept to 
one room takes away one’s appetite ; but I shall be better when 
I go out.” 

“Yes, of course. We must get you out the very first day 
we can, and then you will improve rapidly.” 

“ Were there any letters to-day ?” inquired Blanche, wishing 
to change the subject. 

“ One or two from Rutherford upon business.” 

“ But any for me ?” 

Lord Rutherford hesitated a little. “ Yes — no — there may 
have been. But, my love, if there should be, you know we 
agreed that you were not to trouble yourself about them.” 

“ But I should like it, if I might. It would be an amuse- 
ment to me,” she was going to say, but she stopped ; — the 
dread of something unpleasant which the post might bring came 
over her. She had been so ill, — utterly weak and helpless, 
that she had scarcely remembered anything until within the 
last few days ; and even now, when she could try to recollect, 
it was difficult to bring her anxieties into a definite form. The 
last hour of excitement on the ball-night had left only indistinct 
memories of lights, and music, and crowds of people, and of an 
under-current of great physical and mental suffering to herself, 
and there was no one whom she could ask to make it clearer 
for her. Eleanor, she knew, was gone, and there had been no 
letter from her ; only inquiries for herself through the John- 
stones. And there was also a rumour that Eleanor had 
returned to Rutherford , but how, or when, or why, no one 
would say. She was always entreated not to talk, and warned 
that her ultimate recovery depended upon her being kept per- 
fectly quiet, but they who said this little thought how much 
worry of mind they were causing. “ I am really much better 
to-day, dear papa,” she continued, looking up at him with a 
smile, which it was almost impossible to resist ; “ and I should 


300 


THE earl’s daughter. 


very mucli like to liave my letters, if there are any. Did you 
say there were ?” 

“ I think and I believe there may be. But, my love, I 
should be pleased if you would wait. I am sure it would be 
better, unless you were anxious — there is nothing you care par- 
ticularly to hear of, is there ?” 

“ I have been wishing very much to hear from Eleanor. If 
there was a letter from her I should be glad to have it.” Her 
cheek flushed a little as she spoke ; and the earl looked at her 
uneasily, and remarked that even the thought of the letters had 
done her harm, and he was sure she was much better without 
them. Blanche tried very hard to acquiesce willingly. She 
said if he wished it, she would not ask ; she would wait till the 
next day ; but a tear glistened in her eye, though she was 
ashamed of being so childishly weak. Lord Rutherford ofiered 
to read. He had not read the Psalms for the day to her ; and 
he did so regularly now. It came quite as part of his duty as 
her nurse ; and he was beginning to look forward to it as 
something quieting and refreshing. Blanche thanked him, and 
said she should like it very much, and he went to another table 
to fetch the Prayer-book, which had been moved away when 
the dinner was brought. Blanche wiped away her tear’s 
hastily, that he might not see it ; but he turned round at the 
instant, and that peculiar look of sorrowful eagerness came over 
his face, which was always to be seen when Blanche was 
disappointed. He put down the Prayer-book, and came up 
to her instantly, and said, had she really any wish or fancy 
about the letters ? he would fetch them for her directly if she 
had. 

“ Only for Eleanor’s !” repeated Blanche. “ I was very 
anxious to hear from her.” 

Lord Rutherford thought for a moment, and then he replied, 
“ There is a letter from her, but I am afraid it might be worse 
for you than any others, because it would be so lifcly to excite 
you.” 

“ I am more likely to be excited without it,” said Blanche, 
“ because I lie here and think so.” 

Again Lord Rutherford pondered for a moment, and Blanche 
watched his face, and read it ; and laying her hand upon his 
arm, said, “ Papa, you have something to tell.me.” 

“ Not about Miss Wentworth exactly — only about her bro- 
ther and — ” 

“Adelaide,” said Blanche hurriedly, and at the moment a 


THE earl’s daughter. 301 

veil seemed to be taken from the past, and it stood out clearly 
to view. 

You guess then,” continued the earl, and a smile involun- 
tarily began to play upon bis lips ; but it changed as he saw 
the expression of Blanche’s face ; it was that of extreme distress ; 
and closing her eyes as if to shut out some painful vision, she 
sank back upon her pillow, and exclaimed, “ Then it is over ! 
Shall I ever be forgiven !” 

A sudden thought, startling, unendurable, crossed the earl’s 
mind ; he repelled it, and sitting down by Blanche, said, “ Will 
they be forgiven, you mean. I hope it may all turn out better 
than we expect ; but it is a sad business.” Blanche still kept 
her eyes closed ; she was repeating something to herself ; the 
anguish of her countenance was inexplicable ; could it be that 
she was involved in such a secret ? With her delicacy, sim- 
plicity, and refinement, was it possible that she could have been 
a party to the intended marriage ? The earl shrank from the 
suggestion as if a serpent had stung him ; but in a moment a 
flood of corroborative circumstances rushed upon him. At 
another time he would have been the first to consider pru- 
dence ; but this suspicion, this possible taint upon the object 
of his idolizing affection, goaded him beyond endurance, and he 
exclaimed, “ You did not know it ? Blanche, my child, you 
could not have had anything to do with it ?” For the first time 
since they had been together his tone was severe. 

It fell with a painful shock upon poor Blanche, uprooting her 
unconscious trust in her own power over him. “ I did not 
mean to do wrong. I acted for the best,” she said, meekly. 
“ Please do not be angry with me and at the mention of 
anger Lord Rutherford started, as if he had been accused of 
some grievous crime, and the love which even when it lay 
dormant in his breast was the moving spring of his daily life, 
came back with a torrent of bitterness to reproach him. He 
told her that she was his hope, his treasure ; the one only joy 
of his life ; that it would be a sin to doubt her ; and Blanche 
listened in fear, and prayed that the love which was fixed upon 
her, might in mercy find a surer resting-place, and then hum- 
bly asked if she might tell him all that she had done. 

It was a tale soon repeated, soon understood, and Blanche 
was happy when she heard her father’s whispered blessings ; 
but she did not discover how much cause he had for thankful- 
ness himself. She did not remember the load which must be 
taken from his heart by the knowledge of the cause of her 


802 


THE earl’s daughter. 


depression ; and she did not perceive the reverence which her 
firmness and consistency of character inspired. Lord Ruther- 
ford thought little of religion himself, but he could now appre- 
ciate it as a principle in others ; and with Blanche he would 
have shrunk from the careless bestowal of his patronage, as 
fi’om an injustice against a charge entrusted to him. 

Silence followed : the peaceful silence of hearts which are one 
in affection and confidence. “ Blanche,” said the earl at length, 
“ it was excitement which made you so ill. Your aunt says 
you ought not to have come down stairs the night of the ball.” 

Blanche looked up at him and smiled. “ Ought I not ? but 
you like to see me cheerful.” 

She meant nothing particular ; but he repeated the last word 
quickly. “ Cheerful ? who told you I thought about it ?” 

“ Your voice, your manner.” She hesitated ; they were 
treading upon dangerous ground. 

“ When ? the day that I gave away the living ?” 

“ Every day, and always,” and involuntarily there was an 
accent of sadness in Blanche’s tone. Another pause came, not 
happy and peaceful as the former. 

“ Blanche,” said the earl, again, gravely, “ you must not try 
to read my thoughts.” 

Blanche tried to smile as she kissed him, and answered, half 
reproachfully, “ How can I help it, when you have given me the 
key to interpret them ?” 

Alas ! for the transitory nature of earthly peace. Those few 
sentences had re-awakened the bitterness of the earl’s remorse 
and anxiety. It was he then who had caused her illness, he 
who by the very intensity of his solicitude for her happiness, had 
compelled her to an exertion which might be fatal. 

The curse he had so long dreaded had fallen upon him, 
though in another form, at last. 


CHAPTER XLVHI. ( 

It was the bright spring time at Rutherford Parsonage. The 
smooth, neatly trimmed lawn, the flower-bed gay with anemones, 
auriculas, and polyanthuses — the first fresh green buds upon the 
trees, were all telling of the genial inspiriting influence of a morn- 
ing in May. In a light hand-carriage, which had been drawn 
into one of the most sunny walks, reclined a lady, whose grey 


THE earl’s daughter. 308 

hair, sunken, worn cheeks, dim eyes, and wrinkled brow, would 
at a distance have given the idea of much greater age than could 
be traced on a nearer approach. Her features were good — once 
they might have been handsome, for their outline was very strik- 
ing ; but there was a strange, stony, impassive look in the eyes, 
which gave in general a cold, even vacant look to the counte- 
nance. Only, at times, a flash, as of some returning brightness, 
some gleam from past memories, flitted over it ; and then, for 
an instant, it was beautiful with intellect ; but the gleam gone, 
and the set features returned to their former listless gravity, and 
the helpless hands, and the querulous voice, seemed but the fit 
accompaniments of an age of disease and dreariness. 

“It is pleasant to-day, dear mamma,” said Eleanor Went- 
worth, bending over her mother’s chair : “ don’t you see how for- 
ward the flowers are ?” 

Mrs. Wentworth looked round for a moment, and said, “ Go 
on, into the shade.” 

“ But this is the warmest spot, mamma,” continued Eleanor ; 
“ and you know we are expecting Blanche, and she must not go 
into the shade. You will like her to come and see you ; wont 
you ? ” 

Mrs. Wentworth looked up quickly and said, “ Yes, we must 
make her happy, for he doesn’t treat her at all well. It is very 
sad. Tell your father I want to see him.” 

“ Papa will come presently,” said Eleanor, her lip quivering ; 
“ but we will go on, dear mamma, if you like it, into the 
shade ?’’ 

“ Yes, that will be best ; go on and they went on. 

Dr. Wentworth was standing at his study window. He per- 
ceived them and came to them. “ It is pleasant to see you out 
to-day, my love,” he said, addressing his wife. “ You are all 
the better for it, I am sure.” Unconsciously his tone was that 
of a father speaking to a child ; and there was something of 
a child’s simple trusting love in Mrs. Wentworth’s way of put- 
ting her hand into his, and telling him to keep close to her, and 
not to let them go too fast. 

Eleanor left her mother’s side, and came round to her father. 
“ Are the letters come ?” she asked in a very low voice ; but, low 
though it was, it reached Mrs. Wentworth’s ear. 

“ Letters !” she repeated ; “ give them to me ; we must answer 
them. We have a great deal to do. We had better go in and 
answer them. Tell Jones to stop.” 

“ Yes, presently, dear mamma ; presently, my love,” said 


304 


THE earl’s daughter. 


Eleanor and Dr. Wentworth, in one breath. “We will go in 
presently.” 

“ But,” continued Dr. Wentworth, slipping a packet of let- 
ters into Eleanor’s hand, “ I should like you just to be drawn 
round the orchard once ; and Eleanor can go and fetch my hat.” 
Mrs. Wentworth sank back again in her chair, and Eleanor, care- 
fully concealing the letters, went into the house. Nearly ten 
minutes elapsed before she returned, and then her eyes were red 
with crying ; but she kept her face steadily averted from her 
father, until her mother’s attention was occupied by what she 
thought was a new shrub. Then, as they stopped to examine 
it, Eleanor walked 'on a few paces with Dr. Wentworth, and 
said : “ He must not see her ; I am afraid. It would do her 
great harm !” 

Dr. Wentworth tore off a twig from a tree, and casting it from 
him, replied, “ Let him go. I had only one wish in his seeing 
her.” 

“ It would break his heart,” said Eleanor. 

“ It might sober him for life,” replied her father. 

“ He will not come without Adelaide,” said Eleanor, taking 
advantage of a narrow part of the walk still to walk a little 
before the carriage, and side by side with her father. 

“ Then he will not come at all,” was the bitter reply. “ Your 
poor mother shall never, with my consent, be harassed by the 
sight of her.” 

“ Eleanor,” called out Mrs. Wentworth, in a shrill plaintive 
voice, “ I wish you would inquire about the letters. There 
wont be any time to answer them, and you know I must go up 
to the castle this afternoon. She is not so well, you said. I pro- 
mised I would go.” 

“ Lady Blanche is coming here, dear mamma,” said .Eleanor, 
with a particular stress upon the name. “ You know she has 
had a bad cough, and is very ill ; and she is coming to wish 
you good b’ye before Lord Rutherford takes her to the sea-side 
for change of air.” 

“ Ah ! yes, I forgot,” and Mrs. Wentworth looked at her 
husband wonderingly. “ I don’t know how it is I forget so. I 
know they told me she had been ill. She has been so a long 
time, has not she ?” 

“ All the winter,” answered Dr. Wentworth. “ She broke a 
blood-vessel when she was at — ” a rapid, cautionary glance 
from Eleanor stopped him, and he finished the sentence, “ when 
she was away.” 


THE earl’s daughter. 


305 


“ And they did not think she would live then,” continued 
Eleanor, not allowing a moment’s time for a question ; “ but she 
was better after a time, and they brought her to the castle ; 
now she is going away for a change again.” 

“ A long change,” said Dr. Wentworth, gravely. “ It is a 
cruel thing in those doctors. Poor child ! why not let her die 
at home ?” 

Eleanor was silent, but she drew back from her mother’s 
chair, and walked for some paces alone. 

“One more turn, my dear, round the orchard,” said Dr. 
Wentworth, arranging his wife’s cushions, and giving a sign to 
the gardener to go on. Then he rejoined Eleanor. “ I shall 
write to Charles by to-day’s post : you may write too, if you 
will. I don’t want him to feel himself cut off ; but he must 
not come here.” 

“ It seems very hard,” said Eleanor. 

“ Hard !” and Dr. Wentworth paused impatiently, in his 
walk. “ Look at her ; — look at your poor mother ; and then 
say who has been treated hardly ?” 

“Yes,” said Eleanor, speaking in a low, crushed voice ; “ but 
she would be the first to forgive, if she could.” 

“ And I forgive, too,” said Dr. Wentworth, solemnly. “ God 
forbid that I should not ; even as I hope to be forgiven myself. 
It is not from anger that I say he must not come. If he were 
alone I might risk it ; but if he insists upon bringing that — 

“ Papa, dear papa,” said Eleanor, entreatingly. 

“You are right; you are right,” replied Dr. Wentworth; 
“ we must be charitable. If she were sorrowful — if she could 
feel what she has done — I could be so easily. But she is 
a flirt; a cold, heartless flirt;”- he repeated. “She was so 
before she married; she is so still.” 

“Yes, that is the worst of all,” said Eleanor, with a heavy 
sigh ; “ and one cannot help pitying Charles all the more.” 

“A soldier in a foreign land,” continued Dr. Wentworth, 
“ with a wife whom he must despise ; feeling himself scorned by 
her family, and having utterly shipwrecked the happiness of his 
own ; he may well be wretched.” 

“ He is wretched — very miserable,” said Eleanor. 

“ But what could he expect better ?” pursued Dr. Wentworth. 
“ What has any man a right to expect when he trusts his hap- 
piness to a woman who could behave like Adelaide Charlton ?” 

“ People may do worse things than Adelaide has done,” said 
Eleanor, sorrowfully, “ and not be blamed half as much.” 


306 


THE earl’s daughter. 


Dr. Wentworth looked at Eleanor kindly, for he understood 
her. “ My poor child !” he said, and as he put up his hand to 
wipe away a tear, he added, “ I can take infinite blame to my- 
self. I was too secure, too certain that all was right. I 
allowed him to have his own way, and I shut my eyes to his 
faults. Your poor mother was the only person who saw him 
truly. But one thing I can be thankful for — that he was 
saved from entering holy orders. To have induced him to 
be a clergyman, and then to have discovered his unfitness, 
would have been a misery to me for life.” 

Mrs. Wentworth’s voice was just then heard, in a querulous 
accent. She was wondering where they were gone ; why they 
did not come and walk by her side ; and, as they hastened to 
her, she burst into tears, and said it was a miserable day; 
every one neglected her. 

Eleanor pinned her shawl comfortably, and settled her 
cushion again, and as the sound of carriage -wheels, and of 
a bell, was heard at the entrance, -exclaimed, “ Hark ! there is 
Blanche. Dear mamma, you will like to see her for one 
minute.” 

“I don’t know — I don’t want to see any one. Why do 
they bring her down here ? Isn’t she very ill ?” said Mrs. 
Wentworth, her eyes moving rapidly from side to side; and 
then, in a startled voice, she added," “ Does he come with her ?” 

“ Blanche will come alone, if you like it,” said Eleanor ; and 
going round to her father, who was walking a little behind, she 
whispered, “ You must keep Lord RutherforL Blanche will only 
stay a very few minutes, dear mamma she added, returning 
to her mother, and trying to occu^Dy her attention whilst Dr. 
Wentworth went to receive . the earl. “ You know she is 
scarcely allowed to stand still at all out of doors ; and she is so 
very soon tired.” 

“ Yes, — yes, I know,” replied Mrs. Wentworth, and murmur- 
ing to herself, she added, “ she is going ; it is all best ; there is 
no care there.” 

The garden gate opened, and closed again. Eleanor looked 
round. 

“ Are they coming ?” said Mrs. Wentworth, growing excited. 
“ Make me look neat, Eleanor ; you didn’t dress me properly. 
The earl always makes remarks.” 

Eleanor bent down her head, and busied herself with her 
mother. It might have been that she could not bear to watch 
the feeble footsteps with which Blanche, supported by her 


THE earl’s daughter. 


307 


father, moved slowly along the walk. Dr. Wentworth and 
Maude Charlton were behind her ; but as they drew near 
to Mrs. Wentworth, the earl stopped and gave up his place to 
Maude. 

“ Blanche, Blanche !” repeated Mrs. Wentworth, with an 
effort at thought. “ Is she like her mother ?” 

Eleanor made no answer ; for Blanche was standing by her. 
One silent kiss she imprinted on her forehead, and then leading 
her round to the front of Mrs. Wentworth’s chair, she said, 
“ Mamma, it is Lady Blanche Evelyn, come to wish you good 

Mrs. Wentworth looked up with an unmeaning start of sur- 
prise, and as her eye caught the pale brow, and dark, glittering, 
sunken eye, and the hollow cheek — which were all that could 
be seen of Blanche’s sweet face — a smile of pleasure lit up her 
own features, and she said hurriedly, “ I was coming to you 
to-day. Will he be out, and shall we have an hour to our 
selves ?” Dimness gathered over Blanche’s eyes, and her voice 
was choked. 

“ It will not do,” said Eleanor ; “ but I thought when she 
saw you it might be different.” 

“ Will you not know me ? — will you not wish me a safe 
journey ? Dear Mrs. Wentworth, I am Blanche Evelyn and 
Blanche bent down that her face might be more clearly recog- 
nised. Mrs. Wentworth caught her hand, and looked at her 
sternly and fixedly. 

“ Yes,” she said ; “ yes, I know you. You are going.” 

“ Going where we shall meet again, I trust,” said Blanche, 
calmly. 

A gleam of intelligence brightened the vacant face. Mrs. 
Wentworth smiled, and raising the hand of which she still 
retained the use, to Blanche’s head, she gently stroked her fore- 
head, as a mother might that of a petted child; and said, 
“ God bless and keep you, my dear, and bring you back better. 
And Eleanor,” she added, firmly, “ give her her mother’s pic- 
ture — she will like it.” 

It was the utmost effort of remaining intellect. Mrs. 
Wentworth’s hand dropped, and her head sank back ; and 
when Blanche gave one parting kiss, a wondering stare was all 
that met her gaze. 


308 


THE earl’s daughter. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

Gloriously beautiful was the splendour of the setting sun, 
as it slowly sank to rest that evening behind the steep hills 
which closed the ravine at the foot of Rutherford castle. Far 
over hill and valley streamed the flood of its golden rays ; and 
the rugged mountains in the distance were wrapped in a veil of 
glittering mist, whilst their peaks caught and transmitted from 
point to point, the light which they gathered from the glowing 
skies. And nearer, where the radiant colouring of the higher 
hills, had melted into the purple shadow of rock and wood, 
there still gleamed a faint path of light upon the deep-flowing 
stream, winding its way ever and onwards, without pause or 
rest, like the course of that awful river of Time which, lit by 
the reflection of Heaven, is carrying us all to eternity. 

The Earl of Rutherford walked alone on the terrace of the 
castle. Alone ! that word suffices to tell the tale of his misery. 
What matter to him, that the gorgeous sun-set illuminated a 
princely domain which owned him for its lord ? What matter 
that, as far as the eye could reach in hamlets, and villages, and 
towns, and the remote recesses of the distant hills, wherever 
his name was heard, men bent before it with respect, and 
envied him his greatness and his power? — he was alone ; and 
Blanche was dying. 

It is long before we allow the meaning of that word to force 
itself upon our minds. It had been long before Lord Ruther- 
ford would own to himself the realization of the fear which 
haunted him from the first moment of his child’s illness. But 
it was all clear now — all true and vivid. There was death 
written in the hectic colour of her hollow cheek — in the glassy 
brightness of her dark eye — in the burning touch of her long 
fingers; and the quick, short cough which came but for a 
moment to leave behind it the echo of a funeral knell. 

Blanche was dying. She might linger — she had lingered — 
from day to day, from week to week — no great change marking 
the progress of disease ; sometimes apparently better, able to 
work and read — sometimes exhausted and feverish ; no one day 
exactly like, or widely differing from, the other. I3ut the end 
was certain. It was in vain that physicians gave flattering 
hopes, and friends related wonderful recoveries. There was one 
fact to which no one who watched Blanche constantly could be 
blind — ^she did not improve. Every week something was taken 


THE earl’s daughter. 309 

from her strength ; every week something was given up which 
she had before been able to enjoy. The incipient disease, which 
might have been warded off at first by care, had received a 
fatal impulse on the night of the Senilhurst ball; and the 
changes, though imperceptible at the moment, were nevertheless 
very rapid. 

For a time Lord Rutherford had flattered himself that the 
weather was in fault. When snow lay upon the ground, in 
the month of January, he looked forward to the spring for her 
recovery ; and when the spring came, and the east winds blew 
keenly, he said that they could expect no real amendment till 
the summer. A warm summer in England and a winter 
abroad would quite set her up. But summer approached, and 
‘the weather was unusually favourable ; and still, though Blanche 
might rally for a few days, there was no real progress : and 
then the earl looked more careworn, and said less ; only he 
thought she would be better at Rutherford, and to Rutherford 
they prepared to go. 

That at least was a satisfaction to Blanche. She pined for 
home, with an indefinable, eager longing. She did not say to 
herself that she should be well there ; perhaps she did not in 
her heart think so : but in her sad moments — the hour of 
weakness, both of body and mind — which are the greatest trial 
of such diseases, she fancied that it might at least bring her a 
respite. • ' 

The air of Rutherford, the lovely views, the peculiar comforts 
of her own rooms, the interests which were to be found in the 
village, and, above all, the hope of seeing Eleanor, and return- 
ing to the friendship, which, though interrupted, had never 
been lost — all gave a charm to the prospect of return. If she 
could be at Rutherford again, she felt that she might live ; and 
the thought sent a bounding thrill through her veins. For life 
is very pleasant to the young, and Blanche had just tasted of 
its enjoyments. 

Then came the departure from Senilhurst — the hurry of « 
preparation — the unavoidable excitement — the last thoughts, 
and last farewells. Blanche could not escape them. She was 
sorrowful and depressed, without apparently sufficient cause; 
and they told her it was weakness — that she would be a differ- 
ent person at Rutherford, and would return again to Senilhurst 
quite well ; and she smiled and said, she would not call it a 
real good b’ye, — she did hope to come again very soon ; and 
she had left a box and some books to be kept for her. She 


310 


THE earl’s daughter. 


begged her aunt would write to her, and say how she managed 
without Maude. It was so very, very kind to spare Maude. It 
would be such a comfort till she was better ; but she would not 
keep her a day longer than was necessary. 

And Lady Charlton struggled against her rising tears, and 
kissed her tenderly ; and Sir Hugh waved his hand, as she was 
assisted down the steps — and she was gone. 

If was . two days’ journey from Senilhurst to Rutherford ; 
when they had travelled before it was but one. Then Blanche 
was able to enjoy the novelty of the road, and to look forward 
with expectation, and hopes of pleasure : now she was laid on 
cushions, too tired to speak or think. When they had left 
Rutherford, she had bounded down the staircase, eager to be 
useful and kind to every one : now she was lifted in her father’s 
arms, and carried to her own apartments fainting. 

That night, the night of their arrival at home, the earl first 
felt that she would die. And that night, also, as Blanche laid 
her head upon her pillow, she prayed that she might be taught 
to die. Nearly a month had passed since, and another change 
had been proposed. The air of Rutherford was thought too 
keen ; and a removal to the sea-coast was considered desirable. 
It was the advice of a first-rate London physician ; the earl and 
Blanche acquiesced without a word of objection ; but when the 
physician was gone, they looked at each other and said, “ He 
may be right : it is of little consequence so that we are 
together.” That was their one thought — that they might be 
together — that the earl might sit by her, and raise her when 
she wished for change of posture, and bathe her forehead when 
she was exhausted, and read to her when she was able to listen, 
and mark the hours for her daily drives — her food — ^her medi- 
cine ; and that Blanche might thank him in whispers, and 
smoothe his hair, and press his hand, and lift her eyes to his, 
with a smile on her pale lips, and a prayer of unutterable thank- 
fulness in her inmost heart, for the mercy which in leading her 
to death, was leading her father to heaven. 

Lord Rutherford was said to be determined in his opinions, 
rigid in his self-formed principles, proud of his influence, and 
exacting in his demands upon the submission even of his equals. 
He might have been, he was all this and much more : haughty, 
indifterent, un sympathising, selfish ; as that man must be who 
has reached the middle of life without contradiction or self- 
examination : but he was honest-minded. Whatever were the 
errors of his practice or his belief, he was no self-deceiver : and 


THE earl’s daughter. 


811 


from tlie fatal moment when he stood by the inanimate body of 
his wife, and felt the conviction that he had been the murderer 
of her peace, if not of her life, he had carried with him a 
goading thought of self-reproach to shield him, as by a secret 
spell, from the intoxication of earthly splendour. He had lived 
with Blanche now for months only ; to him they seemed years, 
— since he could not realize what life had been without her ; 
and in that time, secretly, and without word, or argument, or 
entreaty, new principles and motives of conduct had been 
gradually stealing into his heart. He scarcely knew it himself ; 
he did not understand the power which influenced him ; and, 
when he thought of it at all, he supposed that it was a father’s 
natural affection for a child like Blanche ; and so at fii’st it 
was. When Lord Rutherford began to read to Blanche and 
talk about things which interested her, and take trouble lor the 
poor, he did it merely because it was her fancy, and it gave 
him pleasure to listen to her remarks, and hear her thanks ; he 
did not care for the subjects in themselves ; and satisfaction like 
this was very unreal, and to a person less true might have been 
very deceptive. But Lord Rutherford was too clear-sighted to 
believe that he resembled Blanche, or was actuated by her 
motives, because he was beginning to approve what she 
approved. He would even have been annoyed if such a 
thought had been suggested : for he was proud and self-confi- 
dent, and Blanche was to him only “ as a very lovely song of 
one that hath a pleasant voice,” exquisite to the senses, but not 
reaching the heart. 

But they were to part. The decree had gone forth, to all 
human knowledge absolute and irreversible. She was to be 
taken from him ; it might be in a few weeks, it might be in a 
few months, it could scarcely be — in a year. And whither was 
she going ? Lord Rutherford had no doubt in his reply. 
When the thought first came, as he looked at his angel-child, 
when she had fallen asleep whilst he was reading to her, her 
fingers clasped in the earnestness of the prayer with which she 
had followed his words, and the brightness of heaven’s peace 
resting upon her fair young face, he knew that she was safe. 
The voice of a messenger from above could scarcely have 
increased his confidence. And he said to himself then, and 
many times afterwards, that she was too good for this world. 
He said it to Dr. Wentworth when he came to see her ; he 
wrote it to Lady Charlton, and he fancied that it gave him 
comfort. But did it do so ? 


312 


THE earl’s daughter. 


In the anguish of the long nights, as he lay awake listening 
for every sound, conjuring up visions of dread, and knowing 
that the very worst which might be sent to startle him could 
only be the anticipation of an inevitable certainty — his past life 
rose up before him. The carelessness of his boyhood — the open 
irreligion of his manhood — the cold hardness and insensibility 
of his advancing age ; all marked by certain positive offences, - 
and mingled into one huge mass of sin, by the misty memories 
of his half-forgotten offences. If the God whom he professed to 
worship was a God of mercy ; if in calling Blanche from an evil 
world. He was but calling her to early happiness ; was He not 
also a God of judgment ? and could the innocent and the guilty, 
the holy and the unholy, hope to meet again in the same 
heaven ? 

It was a question which, when once suggested, could not be 
put aside. It followed him by day as well as night ; it intruded 
into his transient intervals of peace, when Blanche seemed more 
at ease, and he was able to interest and amuse her ; it pursued 
him, as a spectre, in his solitary moments, and he could not 
speak of it, or find relief in human sympathy ; for he had lived 
to himself, until the very thought of unreserve was abhorrent to 
him. Yet misery did not make him cold and harsh ; that 
could not be when he was watching over Blanche. The very 
tone of her voice was soothing and softening to him, and some- 
times a strange, momentary hopefulness crossed his mind, when 
she in any way alluded to the future, as if even for him there 
might also be pardon and rest. But it could not stay, for was 
he not under punishment at that very hour ? Had not the 
curse of his early sins followed him through long years of 
dreariness ; and had it not fallen now, chiefly by his means, 
upon the only being whom he had left on earth to love ? 

And with these thoughts Lord Rutherford walked alone upon 
the terrace of his castle. 


CHAPTER L. 

Blanche watched the sunset also from her sofa, which had 
been drawn near the window that she might enjoy it. Maude 
was with her ; she was her constant nurse in Lord Rutherford’s 
absence, and Blanche had no longer reason to dread her cou- 
sin’s moodiness and sharpness. Soon after the announcement 


THE earl’s daughter. 


313 


of Adelaide’s marriage, Maude’s manner had quite changed. 
Blanche thought it must be from pity : but Maude’s sympathies 
were not easily called forth, even by illness ; and many times before, 
when Blanche had needed it, she had withheld it. Neither 
was pity the proper term for Maude’s devoted attention. It 
was too silent and thoughtful, as if offered to a superior ; and 
Blanche, in her humility, would not have supposed it possible 
that Maude could look upon her in such a light. The firmnes^ 
of character she had shown, and which was made known to 
Maude by conversation with Lord Rutherford, had produced an 
effect which Blanche would never have imagined ; for Maude 
could not be brought to confess that she had suspected unjustly; 
and if, from that time, she pondered more deeply upon the 
principles by which Blanche was actuated, and oftener asked 
herself whether they might not, after all, contain the truths for 
which she was herself seeking, no one was allowed to guess the 
thoughts that were working in her breast, except by her actions. 

They were reconciled without explanation ; but Blanche 
many times wished herself strong enough to bear a recurrence 
to those painful scenes; and Maude’s conscience, when it 
reproached her for false shame, urged her at least to make repa- 
ration in deed, by insisting upon accompanying Blanche to 
Rutherford, and nursing her during her illness. This was no act 
of self-denial ; for self-denial, except when it involved some 
tangible good to others, was not part of Maude’s creed of duty. 
But she knew that she might be of use, and thought it probable 
that she might be a comfort ; and, for herself, the fascination 
which had drawn her towards Blanche in health, acted with 
tenfold intensity in illness. 

To be with her was to find rest, at least for the hour — ^r?st 
fronf’ the despairing search after truth by the light of her own 
intellect, in the calm, abiding faith, of one who had received and 
followed it from infancy. 

Yet they were mournful days for Maude ; this one especially 
had been trying. The farewell visit to Mrs. Wentworth had 
been a greater effort than Blanche was equal to, and she had 
suffered much in consequence. In itself it must, at all events, 
have been very painful, and the pain was increased by the recol- 
lections which it excited, and which Blanche could not entirely 
overcome ; although she had been assured again and again, by 
Dr. Wentworth himself, that gratitude rather than reproach was 
due to her. Blanche tried to believe that she had acted rightly ; 
she did believe it in her heart ; yet the sight of Mrs. Went- 

14 


314 


THE earl’s daughter. 


worth’s vacant countenance, the wreck of all that had once been 
so noble, was a fearful shock. The question would arise, in 
spite of herself — Had she not in some way been instrumental 
in causing it? And it was not till after a visit from Dr. 
Wentworth, who came to her in the course of the afternoon, 
that she could in any degree recover her former composure. 

Still she did not regret the exertion she had made. It had 
been her own wish to pay the hist respect that might be in her 
power to her mother’s early friend ; and Eleanor had. entered 
into the idea, with the faint hope that the excitement might pro- 
duce a favourable effect upon Mrs. Wentworth. 

Maude had urged delay. She said that Blanche was leaving 
Rutherford for a time only, and might return better able to bear 
the interview. But Blanche would not allow herself to trust to 
this hope. Hope, indeed, it could scarcely be called. She knew 
her own symptoms too well, and could read the countenances 
of those about her too truly to admit of hope. Her daily 
prayer, her daily lesson, now, was not to desire it. 

We may believe that there is always one last trial to be 
endured, one last grace to be acquired by those whom God 
visits with lingering illness. They to whom life is fraught with 
care, and the thought of the grave full of the rest for which 
they sigh, can little know the awfulness of that moment which 
first brings the young and the hopeful in sight of death. 
Blanche’s short life had been burdened with many disappoint- 
ments, many anxieties ; and, in the time of health, ^she had 
often thought of the blessedness of an early removal from 
temptation, and believed that she could welcome it. The bless- 
ing was sent, and she trembled at it. It was not strange. She 
did not know till then how dear life was to her ; she did not 
know now she valued the familiar faces of those even who she 
supposed did not suit her ; she did not understand how much 
she clung to sights, and sounds, and associations, and memo- 
ries, which came and went almost without notice, but which 
constituted the amusement of existence. She did not know how 
precious her father’s love was, how she rested upon it and trusted 
to it for protection. The prospect of death at a distance, and 
the actual waiting for its approach, were very different. 

She gazed upon the sunset now, with Maude sitting beside 
her, and supporting her that she might be better able to watch 
it ; but they were both silent. Blanche’s memory had travelled 
back to the evening when she first saw that glorious view ; 
when her father welcomed her to her home : and Maude’s 


THE earl’s daughter. 


315 


thoughts had wandered onwards into the dark future of earth 
and the dim awfuluess of eternity. 

Maude was the first to break the silence. “ One should like 
to follow it,” she said ; “ to know where it goes. One cannot 
imagine it still lighting up this world.” 

“ I should be sorry to realize that it did,” answered Blanche. 
“ Sunset has always been my most vivid idea of Heaven.” 

“ It is too sad for Heaven,” said Maude. “ Even as a child, 
one felt its sadness.” 

The eyes of Blanche filled with tears. “ It ought not to be 
sad,” she replied ; “ so beautiful it is in itself, and with hope to 
make it more so. If one did not regret this world, it would be 
joyful.” 

“ Yet there is little enough here to tempt one to regret,” said 
Maude. 

“ Do you think so ?” asked Blanche, earnestly, and with a 
touching, child-like simplicity, as if really wishing to hear 
Maude’s answer. 

It was not given directly. Maude’s eyes dwelt upon the 
crimson light, which, although the sun had sunk behind the 
hills, still flooded the western horizon, spreading itself far and 
wide, till it melted imperceptibly into a faint ethereal blue. “ It 
is glorious, most glorious,” she exclaimed ; “ but it is too much 
— one cannot grasp it.” 

“And one can grasp earth,” said Blanche, with a sigh. 

“ Grasp it, and find it ashes,” replied Maude, bitterly ; “ some 
do, at least ; not you, Blanche.” 

“ I have had a very happy life,” said Blanche ; “ every one 
has been very kind to me. I should like to thank them.” 

Maude turned round quickly ; “ ISTovv do you mean ? Because 
you are going away ?” 

“ Not to-night : I am so tired : but I should like every one 
to know that I have thought about them. If you come back 
again, Maude, will you tell them so ?” 

“ You must tell them yourself, then, dear child,” said Maude, 
kissing her. 

Blanche looked earnestly in her face, and answered, “I 
should like to say things out plainly to you ; but I cannot ; if 
you do not understand.” 

“ I do — ^I do understand,” replied Maude, her voice sounding 
hollow with the effort to appear calm. 

“ I shall not come back,” said Blanche. “ Even papa does 
not really think so ; and I should like to tell you now what to 


316 


THE earl’s DA.UGHTER. 


do with some of my things — my books, and pictures, and orna- 
ments. I think about them a good deal, and I don’t wish to 
do so ; and if I might say to you what I should like to have 
done with them, it would be off my mind.” 

“ But not to-night, dearest,” said Maude. 

“ No ; perhaps not to-night : but to-morrow ; the firet thing, 
I should wish it. You see, Maude, I may not have very much 
time before me, though papa and Dr. Granville say the sea-air 
will do me good ; and if I could settle about it all, and say 
good b’ye to every one, and thank them, I should not have such 
wandering thoughts ; at least I hope not.” 

Maude bent her head upon the sofa ; her tears were uncon- 
trollable. Blanche put her arm round her, as she had some- 
times been wont to do in her days of health, and speaking quite 
calmly said, “ You must not fret about me, Maude, and fancy I 
am worse because I speak so ; I only do it because of something 
Dr. Wentworth said yesterday. When he has come to see me 
lately he has been very kind, and I have been able to talk to 
him ; and he understands — he knows what I feel.” 

“ About being ill ?” asked Maude.” 

“ About death !” said Blanche. She waited for a moment, 
and closed her eyes as if praying mentally ; then she said, 
“ if I were very good, I should not be afraid ; but I cannot 
quite help it.” 

“No one can help it, I should think,” replied Maude. 

“ Yes, indeed, some persons can : but Dr. Wentworth says 
they are generally persons who are older and have suffered 
more ; and you know, Maude, I have always had some one to 
depend upon, and take care of me ; and — but that is wicked — 
because I have no faith,” she added. 

“ If I were like you,” began Maude, quickly ; “ and had lived 
the life you have — ” 

Blanche interrupted her ; “ Maude, dear, you wall not say 
things which vex me, now we have so little time to be together. 
But I don’t think the fear I have is so much about all I have 
done wrong; there is such great, great hope of forgiveness. 
But, even then, it is so awful, so lonely ; if some one could go 
with me — papa, or Mrs. Howard, or you. I have never been 
alone all my life. I wonder what it will be like. Oh, Maude, 
can you think ?” she covered her face with her hands, as if 
shrinking^ from the thought; when she looked up again, all 
was peaceful. “ It is over now,” she said, heaving a sigh of 
relief ; “ it comes and goes — the dark hour, as Dr. Wentworth 


THE earl’s daughter. 


317 


calls it. But he says I shall feel it less, if I pray ; and, Maude, 
you will do to-morrow what I asked ? because I am to pul 
away my cares for this world, even the very little ones, and 
then there will he nothing to come between me and m) 
Saviour.” 

“ There can be very little now,” said Maude, tenderly. 

Blanche shook her head. “ Ah ! Maude, you don’t kno\> 
I did not know till lately ; but you will hear all I have to say 
and promise to do it all ; will you not ? and now, please, if 
papa will come and read to me, I should like to go to bed.” 

Maude went to call the earl ; and, whilst the last gleam of 
sunlight was fading away, they knelt together and joined in the 
few short prayers, which were all that Blanche could bear after 
that day of excitement. Then Maude kissed her, and said, 
“ Good night,” and the earl lifted her in his arms and carried 
her to her room. 


CHAPTER LI. 

Maude remained by herself, thinking. At other times she 
could philosophize upon general principles, abstract theories, 
the ultimate destinies of mankind ; but there was only one 
question now for her consideration — the question which must 
sooner or later be brought before us all — what was to be the 
ultimate destiny of each individual soul — of Blanche, of herself? 

How she longed then for Blanche’s simple faith ; the vivid- 
ness with which she must realize all that belonged to the unseen 
world, to be able to say so quietly and confidently, “There wall 
be nothing then to come between me and my Saviour.” 

It was true, actual, as if she had spoken of an earthly friend. 
And even her fears were natural, neither exaggerated nor 
excited, only the awe which one so young, and tender, and 
helpless, could scarcely fail to experience in the first near pros- 
pect of entering upon a new existence. 

It was very strange to Maude, a problem she could not solve, 
for it was not merely the result of education, the having been 
taught to believe. She had been taught also ; but what to her 
was an idea, solemn and important, yet still only an idea, was to 
Blanche an all-absorbing reality. Some real difference there must 
be between them ; and that not a difference which might safely 
be borne with, hke any other diversity of taste or sentiment — 


318 


THE earl’s daughter. 


death was a fact which admitted of no “ halting between two 
opinions.” If, in order to support the prospect of it, calmly, a 
life like that of Blanche was necessary, then Maude’s dreamy, 
philosophical speculations and indolent practice, must be dan- 
gerous. Maude’s inherent energy of mind was aroused by the 
thought. Hitherto, it had been spent in the study of abstruse 
questions ; now, it was directed to practice. And she had full 
leisure for consideration — for the twilight sank into darkness, 
and the darkness was exchanged for the brilliancy of moonlight, 
and still she was alone with her own thoughts and the awfulness 
of the silent night. Lord Rutherford came to her once, but it 
was only to say that she must not mind being left by herself, 
for Blanche wanted him ; and Maude knew well what that 
meant. It was the case every evening. He professed to be 
with her when Blanche was gone to bed, but he never remained 
for more than a few minutes. If Blanche was wakeful, he sat 
in her room fancying she would want him ; and if she was 
asleep, he lingered in the outer apartment, listening for any 
sound or movement. Since they came to Rutherford he had 
chosen to sleep in a room close to hers ; but this did not satisfy 
him, and again and again, in the course of the night, he would 
steal into her chamber to look at her, as if fearful that during 
those short hours of absence, death would remove from him 
without warning the treasure in which his heart delighted. 

The next day was to be the last but one of their stay at 
Rutherford. Afterwards they were to move by easy stages to 
the sea-side, as Blanche could bear the journey'; and, if she 
found herself sufficiently strengthened to endure a further change, 
it was proposed to take her for about a fortnight to St. Ebbe’s, 
that she might pay a parting visit to Mrs. Howard before leav- 
ing England. So they planned — the earl, Dr. Granville, and 
Maude — when she was called in to the consultation, neither 
choosing to allow what was in all their thoughts, and satisfying 
themselves by the expectation that sea-air would bring a respite 
of the evil day, though it could never work a restoration to 
health. Blanche gave no voice on the question ; she had but 
one wish — to do what was considered best. Submission was 
her last trial of duty, and the little energy which remained to 
her was exercised in disciplining herself into quiet acquiescence 
with whatever might be deemed beneficial. And there was one 
part of the projected plan which, as the earl had anticipated 
when it was formed, reconciled her to it in the whole. Even 
her love for Rutherford was scarcely equal to the depth of inte- 


THE earl’s daughter. 319 

rest and gratitude with which she thought of St. Ebbe’s. When 
life is failing, and the future in this world becoming blank, 
memory returns with affection, tenfold increased, to the scenes 
and the events of the past : and where could Blanche find any 
recollections so calm, and holy, and bright, as those which were 
associated with St. Ebbe’s ? Once more to See it ; once more to 
see her earliest and truest friend ; once more to thank her for 
her loving care, her prayers, her counsel ; to tell her, if time 
should be gi’anted, the short history of those few months — few 
in number but infinite in importance — which had constituted 
the actual trial of her young life, and then to die ; — where, when, 
how — as God in His wisdom should appoint ; that was her last 
eager wish, the last earthly cravdng of her heart. 

They were together again, Maude and Blanche, the following 
morning. Business which the earl could not postpone had 
called him for an hour away, and Blanche, feeling stronger after 
her night’s rest, was sitting nearly upright on the sofa, with her 
jewel-case on a little stand by her ; whilst Maude, with a pencil 
and paper in her hand, was writing down her wishes respecting 
her ornaments. They were both very quiet and composed ; no 
one coming into the room would have supposed that they were 
engaged in anything more painful than usual, except at occa- 
sional moments, when a torrent of recollections rushed upon 
Blanche as she looked at some present from her father, and 
putting it aside would say perhaps that she could not give 
that away; she would rather he should keep it as part of 
herself. 

“ You shall let him have the paper, dear Maude,” she said, 
when the task was nearly completed. “ He will like to see that 
it is all done himself, by-and-% ; though I cannot talk to him 
about it now. And if there is anything left that I have for- 
gotten, and he does not know quite what to do with it, will you 
and Eleanor help him ? for you will be friends with poor Eleanor 
for my sake, wont you ?” 

Maude’s reply was inarticulate, though she tried to speak. 

“ And one thing more may I say to you, dear Maude ?” con- 
tinued Blanche, earnestly. “ I long to have it all off my mind 
this morning, that I may tell Dr. Wentworth I have done what 
he wished when he comes this afternoon.” 

“ If you talk much you will not be able to see him,” said 
Maude, kindly. “ You are quite overworked as it is.” 

“It will take but a few minutes,” replied Blanche, “and to- 
morrow I should like to have quite free, because — ” 


320 


THE EARL S DAUGHTER. 


“ Yes,” interrupted Maude, quickly ; “ I know. Go. on, if you 
wish it.” 

Blanche waited for an instant. A thought of bitterness was 
to be struggled with and conquered ; that her father, changed 
though he was in many ways, shrunk from the idea of being 
with her when she received the Holy Communion. Presently, 
she said to Maude, “ That was a sad time at Senilhurst. I don’t 
like thinking about it ; but I am afraid sometimes that I must 
have seemed wrong in what I did, and I know I was cross with 
you. Wont you give me a kiss, now, and tell me you forgive 
me ?” 

It was all Maude could do to answer ; but she did say, “ It 
was I who was wrong and cross, and want to be forgiven and 
then she gave the kiss that was asked, and both were happier. 

“ There is a bracelet for Adelaide in my dressing-case,” said 
Blanche, after a short pause. “ It is too gay for your taste, 
Maude ; she will value it, at least I hope she will, by-and-by, 
because, my aunt gave it me.” 

“ A long by-and-by that will be,” observed Maude, speaking 
her thoughts aloud. 

“ Not so long, I hope, as you fancy,” replied Blanche, cheer- 
fully ; adding, in a graver tone, whilst she lo(;^ed steadily at 
Maude to see whether she undei-stood her, “ I could almost 
blame myself sometimes, when I think of the break-up of all 
your family happiness.” 

“ There nevei’ was happiness with us,” replied Maude, with 
emphasis ; “ never, as far back as I can remember. When I 
was a child of seven years old, I felt the hollowness and unreality 
of all about me. Nothing that you could have done or said, 
Blanche, would have made things better than they are.” 

“ I hope not,” replied Blanche ; “ yet even if I could ” 

Maude finished her sentence ; “ you would not have been 
right in yielding ; no, indeed, I feel that : you must be quite 
assured I do ;” and Maude smiled brightly, and almost sweetly, 
for even this slight acknowledgment was a weight removed from 
her mind. 

“ If I had given way, I should have been very sorry after- 
wards,” said Blanche. “ That is one thing for which I have so 
much cause to thank Mrs. Howard, that she taught me in difS- 
culties to look at actions as I should look upon them when — 
when I was as I am now — dying.” 

Maude’s face showed, though unconsciously to herself, the 
pain which any allusion to Blanche’s state gave her. 


THE earl’s daughter. 


321 


“ I did not mean to grieve you, dear Maude,” said Blanche, 
taking her hand affectionately ; “ but it is always in my own 
thoughts, and so I forget' that it may not always be in others. 
And it makes all things so different ; so very, very different. I 
can’t exactly tell you what it is like ; but, in a way, it is as if 
one had been amusing oneself with what seemed to be a doll, a 
plaything, and suddenly, whilst one held it in one’s hand, it 
had started into life, and become a living being. All the past 
is so awfully real. I feel,” she added, her cheek becoming 
flushed with excitement ; “ I feel that it cannot die with me — 
that it must live on here — working for good or for evil. That 
one action, especially, would have been very dreadful, Maude, 
to think of now ; would it not ? To have been the means of 
bringing harm upon hundreds ; and to know that, when I was 
resting in my grave, it would still be spreading. Oh ! Maude, 
sometimes I think that even Heaven itself could not be Heaven 
with such a thought.” 

Maude was saved the pain of reply, for Lord Rutherford 
came into the room. Blanche hastily closed her jewel case, and 
welcoming him with a smile, told him she had been better all 
the morning, and was better then : only she had tired herself 
with giving some directions. 

“ You were unwise to trouble yourself, my darling,” was the 
earl’s reply ; “ trust to Maude and Barnes ; I am sure they will 
do everything you wish.” 

Blanche was silent. Lord Rutherford’s eye accidentally fell 
upon the paper which Maude had been writing ; it was merely 
1 list of different articles, with names attached to them ; but 
love has a piercing sight ; he understood it in an instant. 

“ I will take it,” he said, holding out his hand as Maude 
foldea the paper, and was going to put it hurriedly aside. 
Maude gave it him and left the room. 

Blanche raised her eyes to meet her father’s ; he was very 
pale, but his voice scarcely trembled as he said, “ It shall all be 
done and placing the paper carefully in his pocket-book, he 
walked to the window. 


CHAPTER LII. ' 

And now it was all arranged, all settled, and ordered ; and 
Blanche had gone through the trying service for which she had 

14 * 


322 


THE earl’s daughter. 


been preparing, and said her last words of gratitude to Dr. 
Wentworth, and told him he had comforted her and helped her, 
and begged him to write to her when she was away ; and 
Maude had received every minute direction as to her cousin’s 
wishes, in case she should never return to Rutherford ; and the 
earl had pleased himself — for the moment it was really a plea- 
sure, though a melancholy one — in contriving everything for the 
journey, so as to save Blanche, as far as lay in the power of 
human ingenuity, from the otherwise unavoidable fatigues of a 
journey. His spirits rather rallied under the pressure of occu- 
pation ; and a flickering hope began again to burn feebly in his 
breast. The physician had spoken so confidently of the benefit 
of sea-air, he thought it might work an improvement, or it 
might at least delay the progress of disease ; and Blanche had, 
undoubtedly, appeared stronger the last few days ; she had 
borne the preparation for removal much better than any one 
anticipated. It was a natural delusion, and neither Blanche 
nor Maude were unwilling to foster it. Both felt that even a 
deceitful hope was better, at that moment, than the despairing 
certainty which would have rendered exertion almost impossible. 

True, they might under such circumstances have remained at 
Rutherford ; but Blanche herself was beginning not to wish for 
this. She thought it likely that the sea-air might invigorate 
her, and enable her to visit St. Ebbe’s with something of enjoy- 
ment ; and she looked forward to the possibility with that 
last lingering of earthly satisfaction, which even the near pros- 
pect of Eternity cannot quench in the bosom of the young. 
And there was another reason for her wish, very different and 
wholly unselfish. If she left Rutherford now, there was, she 
was well aware, no probability of her return. When and where 
her last moments would be spent, God only knew ; but at 
least her father would be spared the pain of associating them 
with his home. He would not watch over her, day by day, and 
accustom himself to see her in the same room, the same posi- 
tion, and then suddenly miss her from her place. Dreary as 
Rutherford would, under any circumstances, be without her, the 
shock of the -separation would be broken by their present 
removal ; and her father would not so probably be tempted, as 
she had sometimes feared he might be, to rush from it in 
despair ; and again, leaving the sphere of his duties, find refuge 
in solitary misery abroad. Yet the last evening in that her only 
real home was a grievous trial, for it was the first step towards 
the final breaking-up of earthly ties which she knew was before 


THE earl’s daughter. 


323 


her. As she lay upon the sofa by herself, whilst Maude was 
engaged with her maid in the bed-room, and Lord Rutherford 
was talking to the steward in his study, she had leisure for 
thcughbdf she had been sufficiently strong. But she was not; 
she could only suffer fancies to pass before her ; she could 
not control them : they were almost all of one kind — of 
her father, and her mother — her unhappy, but dearly cherished 
inother — the thought of whom seemed to give a resting- 
place to her human affections, when she fancied to herself 
the entrance upon another world. Leaving Rutherford seemed 
almost like deserting the countess’s memory. It was the 
only place in which Blanche had learnt to know her. She 
wished she could go again into her room, to say farewell, as it 
were, to that which mostly had belonged to her. It was a 
strange mixture of feeling ; the vision of her mother, at rest as 
she believed her to be, and waiting to receive her, was less vivid 
than the earthly image conjured up by her books and pic- 
tures, in the dreary desolate chamber, which told so truly the 
history of her life. Sight triumphed over faith, and tears of 
pity rose to Blanche’s eyes ; and all other feelings were forgotten 
in the intensity of longing, that she had been permitted to know 
her, to live with her and comfort her. That would have changed 
the whole current of her life ; it might have made her a differ- 
ent person. Yet it must have been, in a measure, a barrier 
between her and her father, and Blanche turned away from such 
a thought ; for how dearly she loved him she was just begin- 
ning to feel. Oh ! if they could but have been as one ! If 
now, when about to leave her father alone, she could at least 
restore to him the peace of mind of which the remembrance of 
her mother had robbed him ! Then, it seemed, she could die 
happy, for she would leave him at rest ; and something whis- 
pered to her that, if the bitterness of remorse was soothed, his 
mind would be more open to the principles and hopes of religion. 

Blanche was thinking upon these things when she was 
aroused by a gentle tap at the door, almost immediately fol- 
lowed by the entrance of Eleanor Wentworth. This was the 
first day for nearly a week that they had met ; - and before, they 
had scarcely been together for more than a quarter of an hour 
at a time. Mrs. Wentworth’s claims upon Eleanor’s attention 
were incessant. No one else suited her ; and her disposition, 
which perhaps in its original nature was exacting, as regarded 
those she loved, was now become so jealous and excitable, that 
it was painful to thwart her. It might have been from this 


324 


THE earl’s daughter. 


cause that Eleanor was altered. Constant watchfulness and 
anxiety will work sad changes in a very short space of time, and 
Eleanor’s face told a tale of great trial in her daily life. Or 
there might have been a deeper cause for the alteration — regret 
and self-reproach for the past, and forebodings of evil to come. 
The experience of one year, had brought memories which must 
last for life ; and they had robbed her voice of its joyous tone, 
and had quenched the sparkle of her eye, and subdued the elas- 
ticity of her step : and when friends pitied her, and her father 
caressed her, Eleanor would often turn away in apparent cold- 
ness, but real wretchedness, because she knew that the griefs 
which excited their compassion were the consequences of her 
own misconduct. 

It was only with Blanche that she was quite free. Blanche 
knew everything ; all her resolutions and her failings, her temp- 
tations and her weakness. She could go back with her to their 
simple life at St. Ebbe’s, and recal the serious devotedness of 
purpose with which they had knelt together at their confirma- 
tion ; the earnestness and awe with which they had afterwards 
received their first Communion, and the energy with which they 
had entered upon the duties of life — armed by the same coun- 
sel, and animated by affection for the same friend. How widely 
since that time their paths had diverged Eleanor dreaded to 
think. Blanche, purified and strengthened by illness, was so 
far removed from herself that she seemed scarcely like a crea- 
ture of the same sphere. Yet still she understood ; still, even 
before Eleanor could venture to enter upon the subject of her 
wanderings from the right path, Blanche seemed, by an intui- 
tive perception, to comprehend them : and the few hours which 
they occasionally spent together, were seasons of salutary, 
though mournful, rest to poor Eleanor’s wounded spirit ; and 
were treasured in her recollection to be prized, she could not 
yet tell how dearly, when death should have parted them, and 
there should be no one left' to whom she could say, “ So we 
acted,” or “ so we thought and spoke, when we were children.” 

For it was not yet that she could fully understand the dan- 
ger of Blanche’s state. She came into the room that evening 
looking almost happy, merely because Lord Rutherford had 
told her that Blanche was much better than they could have 
expected, ^considering all she had gone through during the 
day. She had never been accustomed to the fluctuations of 
consumption ; and she had heard of pereons recovering who 
were much worse than she imagined Blanche to be ; and, san- 


THE earl’s daughter. 


325 


guine by nature, she could not divest herself of hope. Her 
spirits also had tor the hour rallied as regarded her home-trials. 
Her mother seemed tolerably comfortable ; and a penitent, 
affectionate — though melancholy — letter had been, received 
from Charles, which had softened her father’s feelings and melted 
his indignation into pity. It was this subject which first suggested 
itself when she found that Blanche was able to listen to her. 

“ I would have brought you the letter, dear Blanche,” she 
said, as she took off her bonnet and sat down by the sofa ; 
“ but I was afraid you would be too busy and tired to attend to 
it. I don’t know exactly why one should be pleased at what is 
evidently written very much out of spirits ; but it is the tone 
which papa and I like. There is so much feeling for us, and so 
much thought for poor mamma.” 

“ And Adelaide ! Does she write too ?” asked Blanche, 
always ready, even when weakened by illness, to throw herself 
into the interests of others. 

“ She sends her love in a postscript ; but I am afraid that is 
only a matter of form. It is about her that Charles is worrying 
himself. She is just beginning to feel what the privations of a 
soldier’s wife are, where there is no money ; and I am afraid 
she reproaches him. She need not do that, ihough,” added 
Eleanor, with some bitterness. “ He has sacrificed as much for 
her as she has for him.” 

“ They will be happier when they are abroad, I hope,” said 
Blanche. “ There will not be the same looking-back and 
longing for luxuries ; and I think, after a time, my aunt and 
Sir Hugh will forgive them.” 

“ It is not forgiveness which will make them happy,” said 
Eleanor, with a heavy sigh. “Two people utterly uusuited 
must be miserable, if they had the wealth of Peru at command. 
That is the real wretchedness, and that is what I reproach my- 
self for. I knew so well, from the very beginning, that they 
were no more fitted for each other than I am to be the Queen of 
England. I believe, in fact, it was that which deluded me. I 
fancied that Charles never could be so blind as really to fall in 
love. But, Blanche, I want to talk of other things now, other 
people rather.” 

“ Mi-s. Howard and St. Ebbe’s ?” said Blanche, with a smile 
of interest. 

Eleanor could not smile. She answered, sadly, “ Yes, I want 
to talk of her, and to send a message ; but I don’t exactly know 
what. You must tell her — 


326 


THE earl’s daughter. 


“ Everything I can think of about you,” said Blanche. “ She 
will want to know everything.” 

“ I could almost make up my mind to write to her by you,” 
continued Eleanor ; “ but there is so much that I di’ead saying. 
She knows all the facts about me, those I have been forced to 
mention ; but there are other things. Oh, Blanche ! what 
would I not give to be you ; to go back to her unchanged !” 

Blanche stretched out her wasted hand, and said, “ Not quite 
unchanged.” 

“No, not unchanged ; you are right : but altered, advanced, 
beyond, far beyond whatever she would have imagined possible. 
Do you know, Blanche, there are times when it seems actually 
impossible that we could ever have been brought up together ; 
and that my advantages were as great, even greater than yours. 
I cannot understand.it, till I retrace it all step by step, and see 
how I have gone back.” 

“ You are alvvays reproaching yourself, dearest,” said Blanche ; 
“ I wish I could feel you were to have happier thoughts, now 
that I am going away.” 

“ Happier when you are away !” exclaimed Eleanor, and 
tears filled her eyes : “ that would be impossible ; and then my 
mother — but we must not talk about her. I am obliged not 
to think more than I can help ; for you know, Blanche, I cannot 
deceive myself ; it has been in a great measure my doing : and 
that was what I wanted to say to Mrs. Howard. I should like 
her to know the worst ; for she will feel for me, however she 
may blame me.” 

“ And have you not written to her at all, lately ?” asked 
Blanche, with some surprise. 

“ Yes, in a certain way ; I have written facts — not the sort 
of letters she would wish to have, I know. But I could not 
bring myself to do it. You must tell her, Blanche. You 
must talk to her for me.” 

Blanche hesitated. “ If I am able,” she said f “ but I am 
not going there directly ; and I cannot tell how I may be when 
I get to St Ebbe’s.” 

Eleanor read what was in her mind, though for the moment 
the thought of her own griefe had absorbed her. “ Blanche,” 
she said, as she bent down and kissed her, “ wherever you are, 
and however you may be, you will be happy.” She waited 
eagerly for the answer, as if it would satisfy some rising doubt 
in her own mind. 


the earl’s daughter. 


327 


A sraile of inexpressible sweetness passed over Blanche’s 
face, “ Yes, quite happy — quite. I had some fears — the dread 
of loneliness — of what, perhaps, I am to suffer at the last ; but 
they are going. I do not wish to live.” 

“ Papa does not, think you worse,” said Eleanor ; “ and Lord 
Rutherford says you are better.” 

Blanche smiled. “ Yes, dearest ; and I am not worse : per- 
haps even I am better. I may linger — I may return ; but it 
is not probable — scarcely possible.” 

“ And to part from you now, for ever ; to live without you !” 
exclaimed Eleanor, bursting into a passionate flood of tears. 

‘ You are so young : they said you were so strong : there is no 
jonsumption in your family.” 

“ I would rather see the truth,” replied Blanche, quietly. 

‘ It is much better for me, for then I can prepare myself ; and 
70 U must let me say to-night what I would, if I were quite sure 
of our never meeting again on earth.” 

“No, no,” exclaimed Eleanor; “I cannot bear it; I cannot 
listen to it ; and we shall meet again.” 

“ Yes, indeed, in heaven. God grant it,” said Blanche, so- 
lemnly, and Eleanor buried her face in her hands. Blanche 
waited for her to speak, but there was neither voice nor sound, 
save the ticking of the clock, which marked the minutes that 
were speeding towards Eternity. Then Blanche raised herself 
on the sofa, and said, as she joined her hands together and a 
flush tinged her ashy cheek, “We have often talked of this 
hour; we have thought what it would be to die. Eleanor,, 
dearest, it is very awful — very real ; more real far than any- 
thing in life, except prayer and communion with God.” 

“ And that I have neglected,” said Eleanor, without raising 
her head. 

“ Yes,” continued Blanche, in the same earnest tone, “ you 
have told me so ; and 1 have thought about it when I have been 
lying here alone ; and I hoped I might ask you — I might beg 
you — the wishes of the dying are sacred,” she added, her voice 
changing into a touching gentleness of entreaty. 

Eleanor rose from her seat, and, kneeling beside her, said, 

“ Ask me what you will, if only I may be like you.” - 

“ I can see — I think I can,” continued Blanche, “ what has been 
my own safety, in a measure, as far as I have been safe : — or 
rather,” she added, correcting herself, “ what has been permitted 
to help me. It was my rule — my order for every day ; order 
in my prayers, I mean ; not leaving them to chance or feeling, 


328 


THE earl’s daughter. 


but being forced to go at fixed times. It was Mrs. Howard’s 
wish' that first made me feel that I was forced, and then it 
became necessary.” 

“ Mrs. Howard gave me the rule too,” said Eleanor humbly, 
“ but I did not keep it.” 

“ But now, now, for my sake — in memory of me, when I am 
gone, Eleanor, it is my last wish, because I feel that in your case 
it involves all other duties. Only promise me that once in the 
day, not merely in the morning and at night, you will pray.” 

And Eleanor kissed her, and answered, “ I will promise ; but 
I shall never be like you.” 

Blanche sank back, with a smile, as if a weight had been taken 
from her mind, and after a moment’s silence continued, “ And 
one thing more I would say whilst time is granted me to 
speak. I would say it rather than write it, because I can speak 
it more earnestly, more truly, as it should be spoken. I told you 
I was happy. Eleanor, that does not express what I feel ; it is 
all so strange and overpowering. But there is something 
beyond happiness — rest, peace, love.” Her dark eyes were 
lighted up with the sparkling flash of intense feeling, as she 
added, “ Love which is perfect, satisfying ; the dream of my 
childhood, which now I have found.” She became very 
exhausted, and Eleanor, seeing that her presence was exciting, 
felt that she must go. But as she stood up to depart it seemed 
impossible. Blanche motioned to her to sit down again; 
Eleanor paused. She went to the table and took up a large 
morocco case, which she had laid upon it on her first entrance. 

“ Stay a few minutes longer,” said Blanche ; “ I will not 
talk.” 

Eleanor approached her ; the case was in her hand. “ Hark !” 
she said, “ it is six o’clock. My mother will be wanting me.” 

Blanche looked up with the impulse to send a message, but a 
blank, miserable recollection, checked her. 

“ She sent her love to you to-day,” continued Eleanor, unable 
to restrain her tears, “ and — ” she held out the case. 

Blanche stretched out her hand, but it was quite powerless ; 
and she could only say in a feeble tone, “ Open it.” 

“ I will leave it with you,” said Eleanor, “ it is — ” 

“ Yes, I know ; open it — let me see it.” 

And Eleanor touched the spring, and revealed the bright, 
lovely features of the young Countess of Rutherford. The 
mother and the child ; — how like ! and yet how different ! As 
Blanche motioned to Eleanor to place the picture near her, and 


THE earl’s daughter. 


329 


Eleanor’s eye wandered from one to the other, she could almost 
have supposed that the tale of each sweet face had been 
reversed ; that the radiant beauty displayed by the artist was the 
image of Blanche just entering upon the world’s enjoyments ; 
and that the worn, sunk features of the gentle girl, were the 
signs of the life of sorrow about to find repose in death. 

Blanche gazed at the picture long and silently, “ Thank her,” 
she said at length to Eleanor, in a trembling voice, “ very mucli. 
Tell her — you know how I value it.” 

“ It should have been yours before, dearest,” said Eleanor. 

“No no ; it is in time. It will do its work and turning 
away her head, she murmured, “ he has made me happy, and 
she will forgive.” 

Eleanor drew near to say, good b’ye. 

“ God bless you, Eleanor, my own precious Eleanor ; and keep 
you safe. Think of me when you pray — in Church — always 
and Eleanor could only answer by sobs, and the half-uttered, 
delusive hope, that they might meet again. 


CHAPTER LIII. 

Why should we linger so fondly over the last hours of the 
dying ? — why should we delight to dwell upon the form, and 
lineaments, and expression of that which is now so loved 
and valued, but which soon must be hidden from our sight ? — 
why should we treasure up each word and tone to be recalled 
in the hour of desolation, and pierce with a deeper anguish the 
heart that already is crushed to the dust ? We are but adding 
to our grief ; yet we would rather cherish it than part from it ; 
for it is dearer than happiness, more precious than joy, since it 
is instinct with the hopes of immortality. It is a grief, however, 
which needs no description. We have but to ask our own 
hearts ; and, even if the dread experience has as yet been 
spared us, we can tell all the outward forms which it must 
assume. The last departure from Rutherford, who cannot pic- 
ture it ? That momentary excitement — the struggle of conflict- 
ing feelings — of dying hope, and ever-present fear — the petty 
cares, and ordinary trials of a journey, and the never-ceasing 
anxiety and dread felt through all, lest the change should have 
been made too late. 

The earl hoped, even then ; though he thought he did not. 


330 


THE earl’s daughter. 


If he had not hoped, he never would have taken Blanche away, 
for he saw at last how much it cost her. The pain of fatig-ue 
she could not hide, though the pain of regret she could. There 
is something in the very name of home inexpressibly dear to us 
when we are very ill ; and Blanche’s home, notwithstanding all 
her disappointments, had been a very happy one. But she left it 
without a word of complaint, or expression of sorrow ; only with 
a few silent tears, as she looked for the last time on the window 
of her mother’s chamber, and raised herself to smile a farewell 
to Eleanor, who, unable to leave Mrs. Wentworth as she had 
anticipated, was standing at the rectory gate to see her pass. 

But that parting was over and the journey was borne with 
tolerable ease ; and Blanche reached the place of her destina- 
tion, and felt the freshness of the sea-breeze, and saw the spark- 
ling of the bright waters beneath a brilliant noon-day sun ; and, 
strengthened for a few days, seemed to enjoy her daily drive 
and the novelty of the view, and thought — yes, still she thought,, 
and knew — that she was dying. 

Yet days went by as before. Habits and customs, and old 
familiar ways and interests, crowd around us, even to the last ; 
and in the spacious mansion, where provided with every luxury of 
refinement, guarded from every blast, shaded from every intrud- 
ing glare, Blanche was learning to prepare hei'self for Heaven, 
there was a common life of vexing thoughts and worldly occupa- 
tions pressing forward, eager, hopeful, save when it approached 
the sick chamber of her upon whose young brow was written 
the doom of all earthly beauty, “ passing away.”'^ 

There all was stilled as in the presence of an angel visitant. 
For it grew, day by day, even hour by hour, the pure ethereal 
beauty of that heaven-born spirit which is the portion of God’s 
elect. When Blanche had put aside her few earthly cares, she 
was able to fix her thoughts steadily upon eternity. The world 
to which she was hastening became her home, and though her 
perceptions were dim, and her anticipations vague, she could 
still dwell upon some certainties, before which all earthly joys 
faded into nothingness. 

* From the stars of heaven and the flowers of earth, 

From the pageant of power and the voice of mirth. 

From the mists of mom on the mountain’s brow, 

From childhood’s song and affection’s vow — 

From all, save that o’er which soul bears sway. 

Breathes but one record — ^passing away. 


Mrs, Hemans. 


THE earl’s daughter. 


331 


She would be sinless there and at rest ; — at rest in the 
presence of her Saviour ; and the blessedness of that hope none 
can tell but they to whom every earthly affection is secondary. 
It was no dream to Blanche, that the love of God alone can 
satisfy the human heart ; it was a fact, taught by each day’s 
experience. The Being to whom she could turn in every trial, 
however slight ; the Friend whose presence she always felt ; the 
love which could never change, even with the changes of her 
own weak, unstable heart; were realities, beneath which her 
sinking spirit reposed as beneath “ the shadow of a great rock 
in a weary land.” When the terror of death overwhelmed her, 
she turned to them with an unutterable sense of safety and 
relief ; whilst every trifling comfort and every moment of ease 
were regarded as the sure pledges of that untiring watchfulness 
which, if it guarded her so carefully in life, could never leave 
her lonely in death. 

And it was not trust merely that Blanche felt. Trust is our 
faith in a Power ; love is our devotion to a Person. She had 
trusted all her life, and she had loved too more than she knew. 
Now she was beginning to comprehend her own heart, to under- 
stand its yearnings after perfection, its cravings for a fulness of 
affection which she had been told could be found on earth, but 
which she had often feared might, if it satisfied her, border 
upon idolatry. She could not envy others, even with the purest 
prospects of this world’s happiness. She had found “ the pearl 
of great price,” and the wealth of the universe would have been 
worthless in its exchange. 

Lord Rutherford saw that she was happy, and even in the 
midst of his anguish he could not be insensible to tlie comfort ; 
yet the sight of “ the peace which passeth understanding” was 
often goading to his self-reproach, since it seemed to widen the 
gulf that separated him and his child. 

He was alone with Blanche, one evening, about a fortnight 
after their removal from Rutherford, and she was speaking to 
him of St. Ebbe’s, and of her wish to go there soon, and saying 
that she was becoming anxious about it, for the distance was 
not very great ; — she thought they might return if — she paused, 
and then finished her sentence firmly — if she should live. 

He did not shrink from her words ; but, as he fondly 
smoothed her hair, replied, that he did not see she was worse, 
but he was afraid she must be. 

“ Yes,” she said, she knew that she was worse, for she was 
weaker ; and she had spoken to Dr. Granville, and asked what 


332 


THE earl’s daughter. 


he thought about her going to St. Ebbe’s, and he had told her 
that if she really wished it so very much he could not say no, 
but he would not advise it. “ I will not urge it if you don’t 
like it, dear papa,” she added ; “ but Mrs. Howard could only 
come to me for one night, without great difficulty, and ” 

The earl interrupted her, “ Wish it, my child ! my wishes 
against yours !” 

“ They ought to be against mine,” said Blanche, “ if you like 
it ; but you have always been so kind ; you have spoiled me, 
and now I am bent upon my own way.” She spoke lightly 
and playfully, as she might have done months before. It was 
the voice more than the words which touched the weak chord 
of the earl’s heart, and made the tears gather in his eyes. 

“ You have quite spoiled me,” continued Blanche, in the 
same tone ; but it changed the next moment, for her father was 
leaning his head against her pillow in silent wretchedness. 
“ You must let me thank you,” she said. “ By-and-by, you 
will like to think of me as happy always — happy in my life with 
you, and very — very happy in my rest.” 

He raised his head and kissed her, and sank back into the 
same posture. 

Blanche considered for a few moments, and then she con- 
tinued. “ Being ill has been a comfort to me in many ways ; 
because we have been so much together, and we have been able 
to read the same books, and have liked the same things ; and 
you will always like them now, dear papa ; wont you for my 
sake ?” 

Lord Rutherford could only press her hand ; he had not 
words to answer. 

“ I have enjoyed so very much your reading to me every 
day,” continued Blanche ; “ and it seems strange now, that I 
should ever have been afraid of asking you ; but I know that, 
when I first came home, I should have felt quite frightened* if I 
had been told to do it. Things have changed very much since 
then.” 

“ Yes replied the earl, in a hollow voice ; “ they have 
indeed.” 

“ And changed to make us happier too,” said Blanche, with 
a little hesitation. “ It would have been much worse to part 
then, than it is now.” 

“ No, no,” exclaimed the earl. “ If I had never known you, 
Blanche — if you were only a child whom I had scarcely seen — ” 

“ We might have loved each other less,” said Blanche ; 


THE earl’s daughter. 333 

“ but we could never have thought of parting with the same 
peace.” 

“ Peace !” repeated the earl bitterly. “ Peace for me !” and 
then, as he again buried' his face in his hands, he murmured, 
“ There is no peace but for the innocent.” 

“ Papa, my own dear papa,” said Blanche, in a tone of gentle 
reproach, as she forced him to move his head, and look at her. 

“ I am right,” he answered moodily. “ Peace is for you, my 
child ; and for you I can accept it, and be thankful.” 

“ It would not be my peace,” said Blanche, “ if it was not 
yours too.” 

“ Then it can belong to neither of us,” exclaimed the earl : 
“ unless a new power is given to mortals to blot out the past.” 

“ It must be blotted out for us all,” replied Blanche, “ before 
we can find peace.” 

“ I know what you would say,” replied the earl. “ I have 
heard all that divines can preach ; and have read their 
books, and thought about them, too. But, Blanche, my 
child, let it be even as they say ; let forgiveness be granted 
from heaven, let there be no reckoning of our offences before 
God ; — still, still there is memory. Memory,” he repeated to 
himself, “ that mocking fiend ! Blanche, when you are gone 
from me, who will give me peace ?” 

Blanche paused — presently she said, “ Papa, if I could come 
back to you and tell you I was happy, would you not be 
so ?” 

The earl looked at her with a faint smile. 

“ If you could see me,” continued Blanche, “ and knew that 
I had no wish to return to earth, and that my home was 
brighter than even you could desire to make it ; and that I was 
with mamma ; and that she loved you dearly, and was longing 
for you to come to her ; and if there was a place ready for you 
— 3P. place in Paradise — in rest ; would it not be peace then ?” 
Lord Rutherford averted his head. “ It is there,” continued 
Blanche, her feeble tones becoming more earnest ; “ I see it in 
my dreams, when I am by myself alone in the twilight. It is 
a home for us all, and you will come to me ; and mamma — ” 

He turned quickly, and caught her hand ; and, in a voice 
convulsed with emotion, said, “ Tell her I have repented ; ask 
her to forgive me.” 

Blanche made no immediate reply ; but drew towards her 
the case containing her mother’s picture, which was laid on the 
sofa by her side, and touching the spring, showed the sunny 


334 


THE earl’s daughter. 


smile, the beauty of youth, and joy, and hope, on which the 
shadow of harshness or reproach seemed as if it could not for 
a moment rest. 

“ Look ! papa,” she said, as she threw her arms around him. 
“ You have made her child happy, and does not she forgive ?” 

Lord Rutherford took the picture from her. Blanche 
watched him anxiously. She saw the furrowed brow bent in 
anguish, and the mouth quiver and the dark eye become dim ; 
and then, large scalding drops, fell slowly down the earl’s 
cheeks, and pressing tne picture to his lips, he exclaimed 
passionately, “ God bless and keep you both for ever and left 
the room. 

Blanche missed the picture from that evening, and never 
asked for it again. 


CHAPTER LIV. 

Once more it was towards the close of a summer’s day in 
the quaint garden of the manor house of St. Ebbe’s ; and long 
shadows fell upon the lawn, and marked the hours on the dial- 
plate as they fleeted by; and the heavy tones of the great 
cathedral clock resounded solemnly from afar, and mingled with 
and subdued the cheerful voices of children at their play. 

Once more ! oh, many and many a time afterwards might 
the gladness of the day melt gently into the stillness of night ; 
and the loveliness of nature’s repose give rest to the weary 
heart ; and the lightness of childish glee echo merrily amidst 
the old grey walls ; but never again would Blanche Evelyn 
rejoice in the rush of early memories which thronged around her, 
as she looked from the window of her own chamber on the 
first evening of her arrival at St. Ebbe’s. 

She could indeed rejoice — most happy amongst the happy — 
most blessed amongst the blest. With her father to watch 
over her, and smile mournfully, yet with the sweetness of a 
hope better than that of life ; and Mrs. Howard to sit by her, 
and talk to her ; and Maude to busy herself in the arrange- 
ments which now were so necessary to her comfort ; that first 
evening was one of quiet, full contentment to herself — what it 
was to others we need not raise the veil which hides the bitter- 
ness of mortal grief to describe. 

The first meeting had been a great shock to Mrs. Howard, 


THE earl’s daughter. 


835 


much greater than she dared express. She was not at all pre- 
pared for Blanche’s extreme weakness ; for letters seldom really 
describe in detail, and it is only by details that those well 
practised in the sad scenes of illness, can tell the real state. 
Lord Rutherford had said she seemed rather better ; Maude 
had written to make preparation, as if she would be able to sit 
up a great deal, and even to drive out ; and Blanche, herself, 
had expressed the utmost delight at the prospect of her visit, 
though she said plainly that she felt it must be her last. 

They were all then deluding themselves ; looking forward to 
months ! Mrs. Howard, when she saw her, could not hope for 
weeks. Yet she met Blanche calmly and cheerfully ; congratu- 
lated Lord Rutherford on her having borne the journey so well ; 
and suffered her to talk as long as she could about all that had 
passed ; and then, when Blanche at length went to bed, quite 
worn out, Mrs. Howard retired to her own room, to find com- 
fort in solitude for that heavy aching of the heart, which could 
not even obtain relief from tears. 

This state of things continued for a few days ; at least Lord 
Rutherford fancied that it did. He did not know every 
symptom of the complaint; and he had been so accustomed 
lately to its changes, that he was almost beginning to think 
little of them. Blanche was more feverish, he thought — but 
that he attributed to excitement — and he urged Mrs. Howard 
to keep her more quiet ; and Mrs. Howard, complying with his 
request, would take her work and sit in the room, and intend 
not to talk. But the intention could not be easily kept — there 
was so much to say and to hear ; and Blanche felt so inexpres- 
sibly relieved when she could unburthen herself to the accumu- 
lated weight of anxieties which had grown up since they parted, 
and be assured that she had acted under them well and wisely. 
It was such a comfort, too, to speak of her father, and point out 
the indications of his change of mind, on which she so fondly 
dwelt ; and to find that Mrs. Howard viewed them as she did 
herself. She tried to be quiet and unexcited, and for hours 
she would lie perfectly still from weakness ; but some thought 
or recollection would strike her, and conversation began, almost 
unawares, again. This was injurious to her ; but it mattered 
little. Perfect repose, both of body and mind, could scarcely 
retarded the progress of a disease, which, by trifling varia- 
tions ;nnd imperceptible changes in its symptoms, too surely 
bore the ^aandate of approaching death. 

pne it but Mrs. Howard. How she endured the 


336 


THE earl’s daughter. 


certainty, witliout distressing others by her own convictions, she 
could never comprehend, except by referring her calmness to 
the support which is always sent when it is needed. Her love 
for Blanche was no common feeling : it had in it the strength 
of her long attachment to the Countess of Rutherford, and of 
the entire devotion of a mother to Blanche during her child- 
hood ; and the year which had parted them, though it had been 
full of incident and change to herself, had never separated them 
in thought. Still it had been her proud desire to see Blanche 
in her own home, shedding far around the light and charm of 
her goodness, and her beauty ; and even when she said to her- 
self that all was better as it was — that Blanche might have sunk 
under the great temptations to which she was exposed ; or even 
if she had conquered them, might, eventually, have fallen a prey 
to the morbid depression of spirits which had so often shown 
itself in her mother’s family — yet it was hard, really, to feel the 
truth of her own words. She knew it was best that Blanche 
should go — it was the appointment of Infinite Love ; and it 
could not be other than merciful. Yet how was the parting to 
be endured ? 

They had been together about a week, and during that time 
Blanche had taken two drives, which seemed however to fatigue 
her ; and Lord Rutherford therefore said, she had better wait 
till the weather was a little cooler. So she remained in the 
house, and tried to read a little, but her eyes were weak, and it 
was a trouble to her to hold a book in her hand. Lord Ruther- 
ford read to her occasionally, but she could not listen long ; 
and for the last two days she had found it as much as she could 
bear to attend during the daily visits of the clergyman — the 
rector who had prepared her for confirmation. Her father was 
generally with her at these times, for she was not able to be .left 
alone ; and she liked him to kneel by her side, holding her 
hand in his, and repeating the prayers with her. He scarcely 
ever spoke more than was quite necessary, but he never seemed 
impatient or wearied ; and Blanche could perceive a marked 
change in the tone in which he said the Confession. It was 
earnest and humble, as if it was a relief to him to join in it. 

Blanche was quite sure that his feelings about religion were 
very different from what they had been ; but she did not dare 
talk to him about them ; and she could not ask him why he 
had altered so much since the day of their short conversation, 
when she had shown him the countess’s picture. She fancied 
that perhaps he really felt now that her mother had forgiven 


THE EARL S DAUGHTER. 


337 


him ; and with that load of remorse and despair taken from 
his mind, she hoped he might shrink less from the thought of 
receiving Holy Communion with her. She could scarcely realise 
the comfort that would be to them both ; but she did not know 
how to approach the subject. It was difficult to tell whether 
she might or ought. He had neglected it she feared for so 
many years ; though she knew that, as a very young man, he 
had been accustomed to receive it regularly ; and once he had 
alluded to it and sighed, as if those were better and happier 
times than he could ever expect to return. She said something 
to Mrs. Howard about it, and hoped that through her it might 
be named to the rector ; and that he would suggest what she 
might do. But one or two days slipped by, and there were 
some reasons for delay ; and when the rector called again, 
Blanche was not able to see him. She was much later that 
morning than usual in waking, for she had scarcely slept at all 
during the early part of the night. Mrs. Howard thought she 
had better not leave her bed, but she was anxious to be dressed, 
for she thought she should be more comfortable; and they 
brought her into the sitting-room, in the afternoon, and laid her 
on the sofa, which was drawn in front of the window. Lord 
Rutherford w^as to have gone into the town in the afternoon ; 
but she looked so ill, that he did not like to leave her, even for 
half an hour, and he sat in the room with her, writing ; for she 
could not listen to reading. The house was kept very quiet, 
and Mrs. Howard and Maude were bydhemselves a great part 
of the time, for they were afraid to disturb her by having too 
many in the room. They did not go to her till it was growing 
late ; and, when they opened the door. Lord Rutherford was 
reading one of the prayers from the Visitation Service ; and 
they Qlosed it again very softly and went away. Blanche had 
borne that so well that the earl thought he might venture to 
talk to her, and he kissed her, and said, it had been a bad day, 
but he hoped they should have a better one to-morrow. 

Blanche smiled doubtfully. “ Yes,” she replied ; it had been 
a bad day in many ways, but it had been very quiet, and she 
had not been suffering pain, except a little occasionally, and she 
was very glad to be able to be dressed and come into the sitting- 
room once more. “ I don’t think I shall come in to-morrow,” 
she added. 

The earl turned pale ; “ I am glad to see the sun set again,” 
continued Blanche, “ because I was always so fond of it — the 

15 


838 


THE earl’s daughter. 


sunset here especially. Papa, it was just at this very tincie in 
the evening last year, that you came ; do you recollect it ?” 

Poor Lord Rutherford ! what would he not have given to 
have been able to forget ! 

“ You will remember that sunset was my favourite time, 
wont you ?” said Blanche ; “ and that it always seemed to me, 
when I was a child — and even sometimes it does now — as if it 
was part of Heaven, and as if all the forms of the clouds were 
real things, mountains and lakes. It is very bright and beauti- 
ful this evening,” she added, gazing on it intently. 

“We may hope to have many like it, at this time of the 
year,” said the earl, in a tone which was fearfully calm. 

“Yes, I hope you will have a great many,” continued 
Blanche ; “ and you must not let them make you sad, dear 
papa ; but you must think they are the pictures of my home — 
our home,” she added, correcting herself. 

The earl compressed his lips firmly together, and Blanche felt 
his hand tremble. 

“You will take me back to Rutherford, I know,” she said, 
after a pause, seeing that he could not trust himself to speak ; 
“ and, perhaps, by-and-by, you will be pleased to think that I 
am lying near you, when you are in church, as I used to think 
of mamma. And one thing, may I say it ? — I cannot bear to 
pain you,” and she kissed his forehead, and waited till he 'said, 
“Go on.” 

“ One thing I have a fancy about. I should not like 
anything grand to be put upon my coffin, only my name ^and 
the date, and a cross.” She waited to take breath, for the 
exertion of much speaking was very trying. 

• “ Anything else ? tell me all,” said the earl. He was 
summoning every effort to remain calm, for he knew now what 
these last wishes foreboded. 

“ I should be glad to feel that you would not go away from 
Rutherford,” said Blanche; even then shrinking from that 
which might appear dictating to him. “ I like to fancy that 
you will be near where I am resting ; and I should feel that all 
the poor people whom I care about would be thought of ; and 
that L)r. Wentworth would have some one to help him in 
what he wants to do in the parish. Perhaps by-and-by you 
would try and remember me to some of the old persons I used 
to visit, and to poor Susannah Dyer. I wrote their names 
down one day to give to you. Maude has the paper.” 

Is that all ?” said the earl. 


THE earl’s daughter. 


339 


“ Yes, all ; except the directions I gave before I left home, 
and ” — she pointed to her Bible, from which the earl had been 
accustomed to read to her. “ It was given to me by Mrs. 
Howard, on the day of my confirmation,” she said ; “ will you 
keep it and love it ? and ” 

“ Read it ?” said the earl, earnestly ; “ Yes ; that indeed I 
may promise.” 

“ It is marked,” continued Blanche. “ I think you will 
understand the marks. I have put the date to some of the 
lessons which you have read to me ; and there is my Prayer 
Book also ; the Psalms I like best for prayers aivi marked in 
that.” She feebly turned the pages, till the book was opened 
at the office for the Holy Communion. It was headed by a 
date of the preceding year. “ The day of my first Commu- 
nion,” she said, pointing to it ; and as the earl bent down to 
look nearer, or, possibly, to hide the feelings which were visible 
in his face, she added, “ Will you mark it with the date of the 
last ? to-morrow if it may be.” 

“ To-morrow ! Blanche, my precious, precious child ; I 
cannot part with you. God forgive me ! Oh grant that I may 
bear it !” 

Blanche would not let him give way. She said, he must 
not ; it would be wrong now when they had such infinite 
comfort ; when they were one — one whatever might happen. 
The next Communion might not be the last ; but she thought 
it would ; and she was going to ask him to write to the rector, 
and fix it decidedly. It had been left a little uncertain on the 
preceding day. The earl seized some note-paper, and began to 
write. Blanche put out her hand to stop him. Her look was 
so anxious, so pleading, that he threw aside his pen, and knelt 
beside her. “ Together,” said Blanche, and in her agitation, 
she gasped for breath ; “ for the first and last time together.” 
And as the earl bent his head upon her hand his answer was, 
“ Pray for me, that I may not be rejected.” 

Blanche was taken early to her bed that evening, for she was 
very much weakened, and in some pain ; and her breathing 
was very short. Lord Rutherford sat up with her, and Mrs. 
Howard. Till this sudden change it had been sufficient to have 
a servant sleeping in her room. The earl looked Jill and worn, 
but no one thought of advising him to go to rest. 

Blanche was very restless all the night, and they could not 
quiet her in any way ; though sometimes Mrs. Howard said a 
verse of a Psalm to her, and she appeared to like it. She 


340 


THE earl’s daughter. 


scarcely spoke, except to ask for a little tea ; but sbe was quite 
sensible, and smiled at her father when he came up to her, and 
followed him with her eye when he turned away ; and, at last, 
after he had been trying to settle her more comfortably, she laid 
her head on the pillow, resting on his arm, and fell asleep with 
her hand clasped in his. 

She slept in this way for about an hour and a half, and 
woke as if startled. , Lord Rutherford was in the room with her 
alone. There was a change ; he saw that directly, and rang 
the bell. 

Blanche looked up eagerly, and tried to say something, and 
the earl bent down to catch the words : “ Will he come ? Will 
there be time, do you think ?” she asked. 

The earl hesitated for an instant. Then he answered with 
perfect composure : “ We can send, and he will come at any 
moment;” and Blanche joined her thin hands, and said, 
“ Thank God,” and sank quietly back on the pillow. 

It was but half an hour from that time, and the Service for 
the Communion of the Sick was celebrated in Blanche’s dying 
chamber. Mrs. Howard, Maude, and Lord Rutherford kneeling 
by her bed. 

And it was over — and Lord Rutherford knelt still; and 
Blanche’s eyes closed, and her lips moved in prayer. A few 
minutes passed of peace unutterable ; and then Blanche faintly 
smiled upon Mrs. Howard and Maude ; and tried to press her 
father’s hand, and whispered : “ Papa, good b’ye.” The earl 
raised his head, but she never spoke again. 

Long, long, he remained listening to the faint, scarcely 
perceptible breathing, until at length there was a gentle sigh, — 
and the stillness of death rested upon the features of his darling 
child. 

They laid her to rest by her mother’s side, in the vault 
beneath the chapel of the Evelyns, in the old church of Ruther- 
ford. There, not many years afterwards, reposed the mortal 
remains of one who, if a deep repentance can avail to obtain 
mercy, most surely carried with him to his grave, the pardon of 
God, as well as the blessing of man. 

Lord Rutherford never left his home for more than a few 
months, when he returned to it after Blanche’s death. If 
ambition, or indolence, or the love of pleasure had charms for 
him, they were sacrificed in the service of the Master, to whom, 
though late, he had d^yoted himself. 


THE earl’s daughter. 


341 


His memory is still cherished amongst his people. They 
talk of his truth and uprightness, his thoughtfulness and 
liberality, his piety and consistency ; and if they say that he was 
cold in manner, and solitary in his habits, they know that 
he lived in spirit with the dead, and they marvel not that he 
had few affections left to devote to the living. Even now, when 
his castle is the possession of another, they point out the terrace 
where he used to walk, — sometimes with Maude, the only 
person who was ever known to visit him in his retirement, but 
oftener alone — watching the golden sunset intently, as if it was 
a reality of heaven rather than a dream of earth ; and when 
they point to the escutcheon of his earthly glory, and sigh over 
the honours of a race extinct, there are many to pray that, like 
the last Earl of Rutherford, they may one day rest in the “ sure 
and certain hope ” of “ those who sleep in Jesus.” 


THE END. 


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“ The previous works of Miss M’Intosh, although issued anonymously, have been fiopalai 
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with high p. •'ciple, and noble views of life and its duties, ought to win for them a hearing at 
2 very fireside in jur land. We have rarely perused a tale more interesting and instructive than 
the one before us, and we commend it most cordially to the attention of all our readers.” — Prot 
Churchman. ' 

III. 

AUNT KITTY’S TALES. 

By Maria J. M’Intosh. A new edition, complete in' one vol., ]2mo., cloth 75 cts. 

This volume contains the following interesting stories: “Blind Alice,” “ Jessie Graham/ 

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MISS SEWELL’S WORKS. 

I. 

MARGARET PERCIVAL: A TALE. 

Edited by the Rev. Wm. Sewkll, B. A 2 vols., 12mu., paper cover $1, cloth $1 50 

II. 

GERTRUDE: A TALE. 

Edited by he Rev. Wm. Sewell, B. A 12mo., cloth 75 cts. paper cover 50 eU* 

III. 

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Edited by the Rev. Wm. Sewell, B. A. 1 vol. l2mo., cloth 75 cU., paper cover 50 ote. 

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IWTEMSTIWG BOOKS FOR LADIES 

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ELLEN MIDDLETON ; 

A TALE. 

. BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON. 

One volume 12mo., paper cover 50 c., cloth 75 o. 

BY THE SAME AUTHOR, 

GRANTLEY MANOR; 

A TALE. 

One volume i2mo., paper cover 50 cents, cloth 75 cents. 

Lady Georgiana Fullerton’s first appearance as a novelist rendered her famous at 
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the book most cordially.” — Evening Mirror. 

” The book is an excellent one, and the Lady Georgiana’s style is admirable. It it 
clear, concise, glowing, and lady-like. Her dialogue and narrative likewise show great 
skill in perception and arrangement.” — Boston Jitlas. 

‘‘ Grantley Manor is the title of an exceedingly interesting volume, which we have 
read with more than ordinary pleasure. The style is elegant, the story, which involves 
a succession of mysteries and cross purposes, is well develo[)ed, and the scene and charac- 
ter painting is full of spirit and truth. The authoress is certainly a woman of genius, 
which she has used to excellent purpose.” — Southern Literary Messenger. 

FRIENDS AND FORTUNE; 

A MORAL TALE. 

BY ANNE HARRIET DRURY. 

One volume 12mo. paper cover 50 cents, cloth 75 cents. 

It is a tale delightfully told, and abounding in passages of great ‘eeling and 
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“ Life, motion, delicacy, and humor are to be fouuQ in Miss Drury’s Tale.” — Jitha 
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GRACE LESLIE ; 

A TALE. 

From the last London Edition. One volume 12mo., cloth 75 cents. 

“ Simplicity is the charm of this story. It can scarcely be said to have a plo. The 
tale embraces the history of a month in the life of a young girl suddenly thrown into so 
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however, for every thing in it is natural. There is neither sameness nor tameness in the 
narrative; the characters are numerous, and each is kept distinct. Moreover, the moral 
of ‘be story is unexceptionable.” — Com. .Sdv. 

WALTER LORIMER ; 

AND OTHER TALES. 

RY THE AUTHOR OF ‘‘AMY HERBERT,” “GERTRUDE,” ETC. 

Embellished with stx colored Plates. 1 vol. 12mo., cloth, 75 cts. 

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I 


V. Appleton Sf Company's publications. 


NEW AMEEICAN WOEKS FOE FAMILY EEADING. 

- ■ ■< » 

WOMAN IN AMERICA; 

HER WORK AND HER REWARD. 

BY MARIA J. MclNTOSH, 

AUTHOR OF “,TWO LIVES,” “CHARMS AND COUNTER-CHARMS,” ETC. 

One vol. 12mo. Paper cover, 50 cents ; cloth, 75 cents. 

“We like this work exceedingly, and our fair countrywomen will admire it still more than 
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woman, and her mission will be found to be one of beneficence and love. Truly, woman has 
her work ami her reward .” — Avierican Spectator. 

“ VVe hail with pleasure the apiiearance of any thing which is destined to teach woman the 
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truth,’ many valuable thoughts and reflections, which ought to be carefully considered by every 
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ceive a reward of praise and glory unspeakably great .” — Protestant Churchman. 

JAMES MONTJOY; 

OR, I’VE BEEN THINKING. 

BY A. S. ROE. • 

Two volumes, 12mo. Paper cover, 62 cents ; cloth, 75 cents. 

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It abounds with the purest and deepest moral and pious sentiments, interwoven with scenes of 
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reader on the side of goodness. It is a book of which Americans may well be proud. We be- 
speak and predict for it a rapid sale and a wide circulation.” 

MORTON MONTAGU; 

OB, A YOUNG Christian’s choice. 

A Narrative founded on Facts in the Early History of a Deceased Moravian 

Missionary Clergymen, 

BY C. B. MORTIMER. 

One volume, 12mo. Cloth, 75 cents. 

“The contents of this truly interesting volume may be divided into three departments a 

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ministers, will find in it much that is interesting, valuable, and profitable.”— JVie Evergreen. 

HELOISE ; 

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BY TALV!. 

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THE YALE OF CEDARS ; 

OR, 

THE MARTYll. 

BY GRACE AGUILAR, 

Author of “Woman’s Friendship,” “ Home Influence,” etc. 

One volume, l2mo., paper cover, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents. 

“The power and fervor of the pen of Grace Aguilar, are already well known. In this 
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This union of the intense and fervid passion of the Spani-h character w ith the nobleness of ho 
English, has presented a field for the exercise of all the powers of the author ; and magn fi 
cently has she used them, by portraying in this work characters and scenes which awaken m the 
reader a most absorbing and thrilling interest.” 

. A New Historical Novel. 

N O R AI A N LESLIE; 

A TALE. 

BY G. C. H., 

Author of “The Curate of Lin wood,” “Amy Hai;nngtoa,” etc. 

3ne volume7 l2mo., paper cover, 50 cents ; cloth, 75 cents. 

“This is a new acquaintance under a familiar name, but one so well worthy to bear the 
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to the cruelties which the Regency and the Church had inflicted upon the early Reformers. 
After the death of .lames IV, and during the time of the famous John Knox, the Regency 
which governed Scotland was weak, corrujtt, and the vindictive iBStrumeiit of the Chuich 
against ail who departed from her faith. It was during these perilous times that the scenes of 
this work are represented as taking place. Indeed, the characters and events may be said to be 
almost purely historical, and the lives so narrated of the leading individua's belong rather to 
biography than to romance. It is written with much force and vigor of style, anil with au ele- • 
vaticn of thought and sentiment very appropriate to this subject.” — Evening Post, 

HELOISE ; 

OR, 

THE UNREVEALEH SECRET. 

A TALE. 

BY T A L V I . 

One volume, l2mo., paper cover, 50 cents ; cloth, 75 cents. 

This is a romance of great power and interest. The scenes are laid chiefly in Germany and 
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tions of Its narrative. It is told with much force and beauty of language, and in the rich die 
tion of a German scholar. 

THE VERY AGE ! 

A LOCAL SATIRICAL COMEDY. 

IN FIVE ACTS. 

BY EDWARD S. GOULD, ESQ, 

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This nlav is free from personalities; but it hits hard upon the fashionable follies of New 


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WOMAN’S FKIENDSHIP. 

^ Me of Some^tie Eife. 

BY GRACE AGUILAR, 

AUTHOR OF “home INFLUENCE,” ETC. 

One volume, 12mo. Paper cover, 50 cents ; cloth, 75 cents. 

‘ This is truly a classical novel. It is a relief to find now and then, amid the effeminate and 
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tiful style. The genuine spirit of poetry mingles with and adorns the most practical good sense. 
Every lady and every gentleman, young or old, will be amply rewarded wieh the perusal of this 
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HEARTS AND HOMES. 


BY MRS. ELLIS, 

AUTHOR OF “women OF ENGLAND,” ETC. ETC. 

Two parts, paper cover, $1. Two parts bound in one volume, 8vo, 

cloth, SI 50. 

“ Of the living female authors of England, there is no one more widely or more favorably 
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them not only interesting but instructive. Her stories contain, as the very end and essence of 
their being, a high and lofty sentiment of morality, equal to Maria Edgeworth or Hannah More. 
We caiuiot but trust they will ever enjoy their present popularity. The present publication 
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THE VILLAGE NOTARY. 

A EO MANGE OF HUNGAEIAN LIFE. 
Translated from the Hungarian of Baron Eotvos, by Otto "Winckstein. 

With Introductory Remarks by Francis Pulsky. 

One volume, 8vo. Paper cover, 25 cents. 

“ This is a very lively and entertaining book._ It presents the reader with a minute picture 
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arouse them to meet the terrific conflict with despotism which they have recently fought. The 
•ale of ths work in the original has been immense, and its translation into English will doubtless 
tH received with great favor ; the London edition, from which this is reprinted, sells for tS. 


NORMAN LESLIE. 

By the Author of “ The Curate of Linwood,’’ etc., etc. 
One neat volume, 12mo. Just Ready.) 




CfiLEBR-ATED ITALIAN ROMANCE 


D, Appleton ^ Co. publish 

% 

J PHOMESSI SPOSI, 

OR 

THE BETROTHED LOVERS. 

BY 

ALESSANDRO MANZONI. 

Two neat Volumes, 12mo. Paper cover, $1. Cloth, $1 50 

' ThB is a work of absorbing interest, with regard to the varied incidents which mark 

progress of the characters who figure in it. The scene is laid in Italy, in the begin- 
ning of the seventeenth century, and the tale of the Betrothed, to whose union obstacle* 
are continually occurring, gives a vivid picture of the state of society, moral social, re- 
ligious, and political, at that time. It is an admirable adjunct to history, furnishing a 
ney to the strange events that occurred in the peninsula, during the prevalence of Span- 
ish dominion there. Manzoni htis here truly realized his quaint idea of history — true his- 
tory, which analyzes society to its elements — ‘ taking prisoners by force the Years of 
Time, already dead ; calling them to life, bringing them under review, and re-arraying 
them in battle array 1’ The descriptions in this tale are e,vquisitely beautiful, the moral 
and religious tone of a lofty nature, and the path of the actors is bestrewed with every 
possible variety of agitating matter — ‘ battle, murder, and sudden death’ — the bravo, oi 
hireling assassin, the plotting monk, the venal and voluptuary noble, on one side of the 
picture ; while maiden constancy, chivalric ievotedness, simple truth, and civic virtues 
brighten the other. It is a work which has made a greater sensation in Europe than that 
of any other writer of fiction, since the publication of the Waverly series. We recom 
mend it to the perusal of ail who have leisure to lose an hour or so in the company of tha 
accomplished author, amidst the exciting scenes of life in Italy two centuries ago.”— 
Southern Patriot. 

“ This far-famed specimen of Italian historical ismance is here oresented to ns in at 
English form. The elegant simplicity of the style will render it popular, especially among 
the younger classes of readers, and its faithful but minute description of the famine, riou, 
and the plague in Milan, rival in force and pathos the pages of our own immortal Defoe, 
The story is of the most natural and touching character — the plot being the proionged 
separation of the betrothed lovers just at the eve of marriage. The date is rather more 
than two centuries ago, and the work gives a vivid portraiture of that lawless age,” — 
'}ath Chronicle, ^ 

“ We are delighted to meet with this masterpiece of modern fiction in a form whiob 
may render it accessible to the English reading public. The Italians consider ‘ The Ba 
trothed’ the first fiction of. the age, holding some affinity to the school of Sir Waltei 
Scott, but surpassing his works in power and depth, as we confess it certainly does in 
mora. design. ‘ The Betrothed ’ is well translated and veiy handsomely got np ; so as t« 
be entitled by its dress to appear in the most refined circles, and by its intrinsic qualitie* te 
•harm and instruct every class 'of readers^-” — TaiVa Magazine. . 


POPULAR NEW WORKS 

Published by D. Appleton' Co. 


LADY ALICE; 

OR, 

THE NEW UNA. 

A NOVEL. 

One volume, ?vo. Paper cover, price .^8 cents. 

f.aJy Alice is deci<ledly a work of genius. Indeed we know of few ficlions when 
tins first and liigliest e.vcellence is more a|)|)arent. It is both peculiar and original 
Nothing since “Jane Kyre” is more 'O. • * * \Vh 'ever wrote it is, or rather may 

be, a great writer. He writes like a full-grown man ; master of his subject and himself. 
He has occasional passages ol' health, strength. :ind beauty — he has pathos, delicacy, 
atiil spirit lie is finished and elaborate to a fault. More than this, he is exceedingly 
ingenious in constructing his plot, ana effective in bringing his incidents to bear. — Iio.-it.on 
Post. 

“ This is an extraordinary book. * * * That the .author was animated by a deeper 

motive than that of the production of a clever and somewhat surjirising novel, which 
should make a gretit sensation, we are jierfectly satisfied. * * * A graceful fancy, 

and even a high imaginative jiower, are unsparingly exercised throughout. — Douglass 
Jerrold's It'celcly JVews. ' 



A STORY. 

By S. M. 

REPRINTED FROM THE LAST ENGLISH EDITION. 

One vohime l2mo. Paper cover, 50 cts. Cloth, 75 cts. 

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to every intelligent reader .” — Commercial Advertiser. 

“ One of the ino.-it intensely interestitig works we ever read ; vigorously as well a» 
pleasantly written. We like the useful and moral purpose which the writer keeps con- 
stantly in view.” 

CONEIHENTIAL DISCLOSURES; 

OR, 

MEMOIRS OP MY YOUTH. 

BY ALPHONZE DE LAMARTINE, 

AUTHOR OF THE “ HISTORY OF THE GIRONDISTS,” ETC. 

Translated from the French, 

BY EUGENE PLUNKETT 
One volume 12wio. Paper cover, 25 cents. Cloth, .50 cents. 

•Th is volume might well open with the beautiful introductory sentence in Johnson’i 
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ness the phantoms of hope ; who expect that age will perform the jiromises of youth, of 
that ll'.e deficiencps of the present day will be supplied by the morrow’ — give ear ! 

It is a reina'kable and most attractive book.” — Bo.sion Courier. 


Just published by D. Appleton ^ Co. Price ^1, 

SOYEE’S MOEEEN HOUSEWIFE. 

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 

" Good wine will not make bad Latin, says Rabelais, and by the same rnl& 
we may take it for true, that a good cook will not make a poor cookery-book, 
any more than he would serve up a bad dinner ; therefore the Mdnagere of M. 
Soyer must be a capital receipt (or recipe) book, for he is reported to be the best 
of living cooks. We need say no more in praise of the handsomely printed and 
sizeable volume open before us ; but we will add, that having looked through it, 
and read a good deal of it, we have conceived a vast idea of the capacity of the 
author to benefit the human race ; and believing that a good cook is of more 
consequence than a bad doctor, whether of law, physic, or divinity, we think that 
the public are under peculiar obligations to the American publishers for repro- 
ducing at so cheap a rate a work of such excellent tendencies. It is a curious 
fact, that no country but France has ever produced a great cook ; but even Franco 
has produced but three, viz., Vatel, Ude, and Soyer. Vatel was the hero of the 
tribe ; every body who has read Madame de Maintenon’s letters, and a good many 
who have not, remember the circumstances of Vatel’s suicide, how he spitted 
himself with his sword, because he was disappointed in receiving some fish he 
had ordered for his master’s dinner. As for Ude, he was merely the cook 
of that voluptuary, George the Fourth, and the author ol a very bulky receipt- 
book, which would bring an alderman to death’s door before he could eat his 
way half through it. But M. Soyer is a philanthropist and an artist, who takes 
into the kitchen the knowledge of a chemist, and dignifies his humane art by 
elevating it to a science. He takes up a saucepan as an alchemist does a cru- 
cible, for the purpose of discovering the means of converting base things into 
golden values, and of adding to the elements of human enjoyment. Like the 
author of Sir Charles Grandison, he conveys his lessons in culinary lore in the 
pleasing form of epistolary communications, and gives the charm of the novelist 
to his details about ‘ pot au feu,’ and other mysteries, by the introduction of ficti- 
tious characters, whose experiences in cookery are more romantic than half the 
adventures we read about in fashionable novels. Not being professed cooks, we 
cannot pronounce with the authority of a savant, as to the correctness of the 
whole of M. Soyer’s recipes ; but being professed and practical eaters, we confess 
to entire faith in his principles, and commend his work to all good wives, who 
wish to make home attractive to husbands. Among the rest of the good things 
which it contains are directions for nursery dinners, and the compounding of 
comforts for invalids. 

“ The American editor appears to have done his duty well, and has, very pro- 
perly, abstained from any attempt to gild the refined gold of M. Soyer, by the 
addition of any of his, or her own ideas, except in one instance, and that is 
.-.•nply by including among the recipes of soups, directions for making * crap 
soup,’ a dish that we don’t remember having eaten. One of the best criticisms 
that we have seen on the * M^nagere,’ was in Punch ; it was in the form of a 
letter from a wife, and told how she had made a * home-loving youth ’ of her 
' husband, who had once been greatly addicted to club-life, merely by studying 
M. Soyer’s recipes, and acting upon them in her kitchen.” — Mirror. 

“ We need no more than announce this volume. M. Soyer’s reputation as a 
skilful culinary artist is almost world-wide, and moreover, it is understood that 
he can show how some things can be made economically as well as expensively. 
In this volume we have one thousand recipes for preparing palatable dishes for 
every meal in the day ; said recipes being so far remodelled as to suit this climate, 
where so many articles of food, which are rare and expensive in England, are 
accessible to all. Sensible men and women enjoy food all the better for being 
well prepared, and it will be all the better prepared if those charged with that 
duty consult M. Soyer’s book. — Com*l Adv. 

3 


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